^mfit 


THE  MASQUE 


OF   THE 


MUSES. 


BY 


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THOS.    Er  GARRETT. 


O  i      O        3 


O  •       >  r.        J  '  '      1     *         3     i  >>J5 


ST.  LOUIS: 
THE  ST.  LOUIS  NEWS  COMPANY. 

1885. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

THOMAS  ELLWOOD  GARRETT, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  cf  Congress  at  Washington. 


•  •    •    • 


St.  Louis,  Mo.:  St.  Louis,  Mo.: 

Press  0/ Nixon- Jones  Printing  Co.  Becktold  &*  Co.,  Binders. 


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CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Proem 3 

PROLOGUES  — 

The  Masque  of  the  Muses 4 

Time  and  Tide 9 

Home  Again 14 

MEMORIALS  — 

Adelaide  Neilson 18 

The  Neilson  Mulberry        .        .        ....  32 

Matilda  Heron .35 

Nathaniel  Paschall 40 

George  Knapp 42 

THREE  STAGES  — 

Pioneer ' 44 

Merchant 49 

Statesman 53 

LITTLE  PEOPLE'S   POEMS  — 

Willie  Clark 60 

Mary  Who  had  the  Little  Lamb      .        .        .        .69 

Blooming  Christmas  Tree 73 

Baby  Brown-Eyes 75 

Cherry  Cheeks 77 

Little  Girl  Lida 78 

Tiny  Tina       .........  79 

SONGS  AND   BALLADS  — 

Belle  Brandon .        .80 

Lady  Beauty 82 

Thine  and  Mine 83 

Cithern  Song 85 

Among  the  Daisies 88 

Ballad 90 

Scotia .91 

Guard  of  Land  and  Sea 94 

Bond  and  Shield 96 


iw209330 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS  AND  BKLLKDS-^  Continued. 

PAGE 

Arabel  Knitting    .        .        .        .        •  ,     •        •        -97 

Susie  in  the  Lane 99 

Tree  and  Vine       .        . 102 

Our  Roof  Tree 104 

Muster  Day 106 

MISCELLANEOUS  — 

Our  Mary 112 

The  Old  Post  Road 114 

Dinner  in  the  Street .  126 

Coronation — Yorktown  Centennial  Ode       .         .         .  135 

Vagged 142 

Nero  —  From  the  German 147 

Disenthralled 152 

Raking  Hay 162 

The  Old  Clerk 167 

Shoshone 172 

Zelda .        .        .        .177 

Songs  of  the  Dawn 183 

Sallie  Brown 189 

The  Legend  of  a  Leaf 194 

Endowment 199 

The  Shoreless  Sea 204 

Chimney  Ghost — An  Idyl  of  the  South        .        .        .  207 

Our  Best  Room 221 

The  Winding  Road  in  the  Wood        .        .        .        .  229 

Twice  a  Child 231 

OCCASIONAL  — 

The  Giants  —  Press  Association  Poem   ....  238 

Field  and  Work — Press  Association  Address      ,        .  252 

The  Drama  —  A /Response      ......  269 

EDUCATIONAL  — 

Normal  School,  Dedication  1 279 

Normal  School,  Dedication  II.  .        .        .        .        .  294 

SKETCHES   FROM   LIFE  — 

Ukel-Zam -        .        .        .  303 

Man  and  Monkey 314 

Half-Past  Five  in  the  Morning         ....  325 

Poor  Old  Horsk    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  341 


Lillian^  whoe'er  thou  arty 
Of  my  life  the  dearest  part. 
Ever  sought^  and  never  found 
In  my  weary  work-day  round — 
Let  me  call  thee  Lillian. 

Dear  one,  dreamed  of,  never  seen  ; 
Something  lost  that  might  have  been  ■ 
Could  the  fleeting  fond  ideal 
Find  fit  lodgment  in  the  real 
Blooming  beauty  Lillian. 

Lillian,  where'er  thou  art, 
'Biding  with  thee  is  my  heart. 
In  thy  day  dream  list  to  me 
Dedicate  this  verse  to  thee  — 
"Airy,  fairy  Lillian.''* 


m^^^^^i 


•    •    •    • 


PROLOGUES. 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


SPOKEN    BY 

EMMA  STOCKMAN    NORTON. 


HE   world   is   topped   with   temples ;   'neath 
their  domes 
Ideas  build  and  fashion  people's  homes, 
Their  social  fabric,  habits,  customs,  speech. 
And  all  that  living  learns  and  art  may  teach. 

A  temple  of  the  Muses  here  behold 
(The  guardian  vestals  of  the  arts  of  old), 
Endowed  with  treasures  costlier  than  the  gems 
That  blaze  in  qrumbling,  brow-worn  diadems ; 
The  stored  rewards  of  thought,  and  toil,  and  strife 
To  make  the  best  and  most  of  human  life  — 
The  gold  of  genius  and  the  pearls  of  worth. 
That  sum  the  total  riches  of  the  earth. 


PROLOGUES. 


The  muses'  temple,  and  the  hallowed  shrine 
Of  worship,  when  the  Ideal  was  Divine ; 
Sweet  ministers  of  thought,  its  feeling,  sight, 
Its  inspiration  and  its  wings  of  flight. 
Come,  tuneful  Nine  —  from  old  Olympus  come- 
Abide  with  us,  and  make  our  house  your  home. 

Hark  !  epic  strains  —  heroic  minstrelsy  — 
A  song  of  valor's  deeds,  and  victory  — 
All  welcome,  silver-toned  Calliope. 

Terpsichore  trips,  smiling,  graceful,  fair. 
Bounding  away  from  load  of  cast-off  care. 
And  flinging  blooms  of  beauty  in  the  air. 

Thalia  laughs  at  follies  she  indites, 

And  lengthens  life,  and  heightens  its  delights, 

Bright'ning  its  days  and  sweetening  its  nights. 

In  tragic  passion  rapt,  Melpomene  stands, 
With  dewy  eyes  and  nervous,  wringing  hands. 
And  pleading  voice  tha^  sympathy  commands. 

Euterpe  —  Queen  of  Song —  or  grave  or  gay. 

As  Music's  spell  inspires  the  lyric  lay  ; 

Where  is  the  heart  that  yields  not  to  thy  sway  ? 

Laborious  Clio  lights  the  scenic  stage 
With  History's  wide,  illuminated  page, 
And  makes  the  world  the  heir  of  every  age. 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


Erato  sings  her  ditties  soft  and  low 

In  nooks  where  pairs  of  blushing  lovers  go 

To  double  joy,  and  share  each  other's  woe. 

Polymnia,  of  meditative  song, 

Cheering  the  weak,  and  strengthening  the  strong  ; 

The  hymn  sublime  still  helps  the  world  along. 

Urania  —  goddess  of  the  star-bright  train  ! 
Shower  heaven's  light  down  on  this  earthy  fane. 
Where  *'  stars  "  are  symbols  of  thy  lustrous  reign. 

The  Nine  are  come  —  harmonious  aid  to  lend, 
The  Arts  to  honor,  and  our  rites  commend ; 
Each  with  her  precious  gift,  and  all  combined  — 
They  bear  the  harvest  yield  of  human  kind. 

'Tis  garnered  here — the  wealth  of  every  clime; 
'Tis  here  dispensed  —  the  heritage  of  Time, 
Dispensed  to  all,  in  wholesome  mental  food 
For  hungry  souls  who  crave  a  sovereign  good. 

Grandly  beneath  the  Drama's  liberal  reign 
The  people  meet  on  Common  Nature's  plane. 
The  rich,  the  poor,  in  one  commingled  throng 
Where  all  by  right  of  kindred  tastes  belong. 

The  most  that  learning,  all  that  wealth  can  give 

Is,  Life's  best  uses,  and  the  Art  to  live. 

The  Art  Dramatic  is  the  living  Art 

To  sound  the  depths  and  motives  of  the  heart, 


PROLOGUES. 


And  lengthen  for  its  vot'fies  life's  short  span 
By  teaching  man  to  know  his  fellow-man  ; 
To  live  himself —  obeying  duty's  call, 
And  through  his  own  true  life  to  live  in  all. 

Who  enters  here  lives  in  two  worlds  —  the  Real 

We  leave  without ;  within  we  find  th*  Ideal. 

In  this  safe  refuge  of  the  tempest-riven 

We  stand  with  feet  on  Earth,  and  head  in  Heaven. 

The  magic  of  the  Mimic  Scene  transforms 

To  summer  sunshine  sorrows'  clouds  and  storms. 

Escaped  from  turmoil,  and  unchained  from  care, 
Free  fancy  soars  in  intellect's  upper  air 
Among  the  masters  —  wise  in  every  tongue 
That  e'er  was  lisped  in  since  the  world  was  young. 
Or  thundered  from  high  places  to  resound 
Forever  clear  in  time's  eternal  round. 

Such  are  the  blessings  that  the  muses  bring 
Treasured  in  golden  words  the  poets  sing. 
The  heritage  is  ours,  we  prize  its  worth 
Above  the  dust  and  grosser  ores  of  earth ; 
We  hoard  it  not  as  misers  clutch  their  gold, 
Which  drags  them  groaning  to  their  mother  mould ; 
But  would  therewith  transmute  the  world's  increase 
Into  sweet  concord  and  a  golden  peace. 


8 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


When  every  man  shall  serve  the  general  good, 
And  love  enfold  the  human  brotherhood ; 
When  all  earth's  nations  harmonize  as  one. 
Then,  not  till  then,  the  drama's  work  is  done. 


TIME   AND   TIDE, 


SPOKEN   BY 

ANNIE   MOORE   SCOTT. 


HE  time  is  the  theme  —  and  the  taste  of  our 

day 
As   it  tends  to   amusement  and    flows    into 

play. 

Let's  lay  by  our  work ;  we're  too  busy  by  half — 
Forget  our  vexations  and  honestly  laugh  ! 
The  world  that  we  live  in  is  gloomy  or  bright, 
As  the  lens  of  the  mind  is  that  colors  the  light 
By  which  it  is  seen ;  rub  your  glasses,  and  look 
At  the  pages  and  pictures  of  life's  open  book. 

Day  and  night  —  light  and  shade — joy,  grief,  peace 

and  strife, 
And  the  blending  of  tints  is  the  science  of  life. 
There  are  manifold  views  and  effects  of  the  scene. 
As  the  colors  of  culture  are  —  yellow  or  green. 
The  white  ray  of  intellect's  crystalline  light 
Is  sunshine,  and  can  not  bewilder  the  sight. 


THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


Good  and  evil  are  rivals,  as  at  the  beginning, 
When  knowledge  was  culprit,  and  set  the  world  sin- 
ning. 

How  to  choose?     That's  a  point  on  which  tastes 

disagree-; 
What  is  wholesome  for  you  may  be  poison  to  me. 
But  common  sense  humanly  pleads  for  our  good, 
As  appetite  does  in  the  matter  of  food. 
If  the  bill  of  fare's  not  to  our  liking,  at  least 
We  can't  be  compelled  to  sit  down  to  the  feast. 
Empty  benches  will  soon  bring  a  change  of  the  bills. 
As  dieting  doctors  some  bodily  ills. 
The  play's  in  your  hands  —  or  to  make  or  to  mar 
As  you  sit  here  in  judgment  on  author  and  star. 

Now,  what  do  you  want  ?     Will  you  laugh  ?     Will 

you  weep  ? 
Are  you  ranged  there  in  rows  to  go  sweetly  to  sleep? 
Or  would  you  have  passion  to  harrow  your  hearts  ? 
Or  pretty  spectacular  nudity  arts  ? 
Is  it  dresses  from  Paris,  or  talents  inbred  ? 
Is  it  rags  on  the  back,  or  brains  in  the  head  ? 

We've  heard  it  asserted  and  claimed  as  a  fact 
That  Beauty's  not  genius,  and  clothes  can  not  act. 
Dress  never  so  fine,  the  attractions  of  face 
Are  stronger  than  satin,  and  velvet,  and  lace  ; 


PROLOGUES.  I  I 


How  much  more  mentality's  jewels  outshine 
All  gold-measured  millions,  and  gems  of  the  mine  ! 
There's  something  to  live  for  beside  the  mere  soil, 
The  dust,  and  the  dirt,  and  the  pain,  and  the  toil. 
And  life  ought  to  furnish  its  own  compensations 
After  climbing  so  many  improved  generations ; 
And  it  does,  if  we  use  our  five  senses  aright. 
And  steadily  keep  our  eyes  turned  to  the  light. 
There's  nature,  and  art-works,  and  multiform  beauty, 
And  all  to  enjoy  in  the  straight  line  of  duty ; 
They've  kept  the  world  moving  from  age  unto  age, 
And  where  do  we  love  them  best  ?     Here,  on  the 
stage. 

The  time  is  the  theme,  and  the  tide,  running  high, 
Leaves  hollow  pretensions  and  other  drift  dry. 
Froth  and  foam  —  phosphorescent  —  when  cast  on 

the  shore. 
Fall    darkling,   and    make   the    beach    barren    the 

more. 
A  sign  of  the  times  is  a  juvenile  rage 
To  make  up  as  players,  and  act  on  the  stage  — 
As,  who  pounds  piano,  or  scrapes  violin. 
Unknowing  a  note,  but  producing  a  din. 
O  !  the  racket  and  jargon  of  drumming  and  voice  ; 
Nor  music,  nor  acting — just  nothing  but  noise. 
Like  the  night-winds  and  waves  in  tumultuous  roar, 
And  daylight  discloses  the  trash  on  the  shore. 


12  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

Skipping  over  the  time  when  the  Drama  was  young, 

We  come  to  the  age  of  our  own  English  tongue. 

Good,  merry  old  England,  we  reverence  thee 

As  the  mother  of  freedom  and  mould  of  the  free. 

We  love  the  good  matron  who  gave  us  a  start 

In  life  and  in  morals,  in  speech  and  in  art ; 

And  —  flesh  of  her  flesh,  and  bone  of  her  bone  — 

She  taught  us  to  build  up  a  home  of  our  own. 

But  chiefly  the  old  country's  dear  to  the  young 

Because  Shakespeare's  language  is  our  mother  tongue. 

The  bard  for  all  time,  of  no  country  or  age. 

Is  the  growth,  the  flower,  and  the  fruit  of  the  stage, 

The  figure  ideal,  passed  reverently  down. 

Combines  in  its  presence  both  brow  and  the  crown. 

Who  cries  down  the  theater,  strikes  at  the  heart 
Of  popular  consciousness,  culture  and  art ; 
Who  scofls  at  the  stage's  imperial  throne 
Had  best  let  the  world-seated  sovereign  alone. 
Nor  quote  him,  nor  know  him,  nor  mention  his  name, 
And  see  to  whose  lot  falls  the  folly  and  shame ; 
They've  no  right  to  steal  from  him  even  a  line. 
Since  his  theme  is  human  and  theirs  is  divine. 
The  world  builds  him  temples,  which  have  their  high 

priests 
And  service  of  homage,  and  incense,  and  feasts ; 
All  we  ask  is  charity,  peace  and  good  will  — 
Long  taught,  but  whose  mission  remains  to  fulfill. 


PROLOGUES.  13 


As  time  gallops  onward,  the  world  goes  ahead  — 

No  retrograde  movement  can  ever  be  led. 

What  grand  scenes  were  played  on  the  stage  of  the 

West 
By  manager  actors  —  now  gone  to  their  rest ! 
Sol  Smith,  Bateman,  Field  and  DeBar  in  the  cast, 
And  Ludlow  still  linking  the  present  and  past. 
The  record  of  changes  that  every  year  brings 
Makes  plain  that  improvement's  the  order  of  things. 
This  house,  that  is  built  in  the  room  of  the  last, 
Is  proof  of  the  present  o'ertopping  the  past ; 
A  conquest  of  Time ;  and  the  height  of  the  tide 
The  floodgates  of  enterprise  ever  decide. 
With  brain-power  and  culture,  and  muscle  and  bone, 
The  world  moves  along  with  a  force  of  its  own. 


HOME  AGAIN. 


OPERA  HOUSE   OPENING   ADDRESS. 


:E'RE  here  again,  happy,  and  hopeful  and 
gay, 
And  favored  by  Fortune  we've  come  back 
to  stay. 

'Tis  almost  a  year  since  !     Friends  how  do  you  do  ? 
You're  glad  to  see  us  ?     Shake  !     We're  glad  to  see 

you ! 
Let's  have  a  good  time,  and  forget  the  dark  days 
Of  clouds  in  the  skies,  and  gloom  in  our  ways;  — 
Remembering  only  the  joyous,  and  bright. 
While  living  as  much  as  we  may  in  the  light. 

This  house  that  is  builded  where  other  ones  stood 
We  dedicate  now  to  the  service  of  Good* 
And  here,  to  the  shrine  of  the  Muses  we  come 
To  welcome  Will  Shakespeare's  return  to  his  home. 
A  royal  reception  and  greeting  we  give  him, 
Assured  that  no  monarch  or  man  will  outlive  him  — 
The  soul  of  his  age,  and  the  beacon  of  ages, 
The  greatest  of  poets,  the  wisest  of  sages. 


PROLOGUES.  15 


And  this  is  his  dwelling  place  —  right  here  among 
A  people  whose  language  is  his  mother-tongue. 
And  we  are  his  household  —  the  actors,  and  you, 
Who  give  us  your  smiles,  and  kind  friendliness,  too. 
Exalt  him  as  master,  and  love  him  as  friend 
And  worship  his  genius  —  world  without  end  — 
Amen  !     By  the  way,  —  this  has  no  church  relation, 
Though  no  church  could  have  a  more  fit  congregation. 

O  !  magical  Memory,  turn  the  lorgnette 
On  some  scenes,  and  figures  that  linger  here  yet. 
There's  Field,  who  first  broke  village  barriers  down. 
And  built  a  grand  play-house  —  away  out  of  town. 
The  place  that  was  called  the  "  Varieties  *'  then 
Was  fenced  in  and  white  washed  for  our  **  Upper 
Ten." 

Where  boys  were  not  wanted,  the  boys  didn't  go, 
And  soon  came  disaster  to  "  Gentleman  Joe." 

Then  "  Crooks  "  and  "  Mazeppas  "  like  Goths  and 

the  Vandals 
Rushed  into  the  Drama's  socks,  buskins  and  sandals  ; 
And  shapely  spectacular  went  it  full  tilt, 
And  revelled  in  nudity,  tinsel  and  gilt ; 
But  these  orgies  ended  in  surfeit,  and  then 
With  face  like  the  full  moon  rose  merry  old  Ben  — 
The  genial,  and  jolly,  and  jocund  DeBar  — 
A  round  lump  of  earth,  yet  he  shone  as  a  star. 


l6  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

Here  halt  we  a  moment  in  Memory's  glow, 

And  dream  back  "  De  Bar's  "  but  a  short  while  ago ; 

With  old  things  around  and  the  old  rafters  o'er  us, 

And  Toodles,  the  Mock  Duke,  and  FalstafTbefore  us ; 

The  royal  old  times,  when  the  actors  were  on  — 

A  few  are  still  left,  but  a  many  are  gone ;  — 

He  whom  we  most  miss  in  this  retrospect  scene 

Is  honored  with  Shakespeare  in  Tower  Grove  green. 

New  people  have  come;  — here  are  only  a  few 
Who  thronged  the  new  house  in  Eighteen  Fifty-two  ; 
But   'tween   you   and   me  —  (only   four  years  have 

flown) 
All  warmed   the  new  house  of    Eighteen    Eighty- 
one — 
You  —  friends  who  stood  by  us,  by  night,  and  by  day, 
In  storm,  and  in  sunshine,  and  made  our  work  play ; 
Now,  are  you  not  —  every  one  —  glad  you're  alive 
To  see  the  hew  house  of  Eighteen  Eighty-five  ? 

Ups  and  downs  are  events  in  all  human  careers. 
And  change  after  change  is  the  outcome  of  years. 
While  new  things  supply  the  demand  of  the  stage, 
Our  friends y  like  good  wine,  are  the  better  for  age. 
Amid  new  surroundings  you  give  us  good  cheer;  — 
As  old  friends  we  welcome  you  heartily  here  ; 
And,  all  in  a  bunch,  we  take  you  by  the  hand,  — 
And  say:  —  we  do  business  still  at  the  old  stand. 


PROLOGUES.  17 

Our  aim  is  to  please,  and  amuse  you  when  toil 
Might  even  the  sweetest  of  sweet  tempers  spoil, 
To  lift  off  of  Life  the  dull  load  that  it  bears. 
And  light  up  your  pathways,  and  drive  away  cares  — 
But  just  for  a  night  of  Elysian  dreams 
That  bring  to  the  coming  day  unclouded  beams ; 
The  bent  of  our  efforts  is  true  pleasure-giving 
To  add  to  life's  relish,  and  make  it  worth  living. 

What  more  can  we  do,  in  the  nature  of  things 
Than  that,  which  in  doing,  most  happiness  brings 
To  you,  and  to  us,  — and  in  far  largest  measure 
To   those   whose    condition    gives    small   means    of 

pleasure  ? 
On  our  part,  we  promise  to  give  you  the  best 
That  the  market  affords  —  North,  South,  East  and 

West ; 
The  bill  of  fare's  tempting  for  good  appetite ; 
Good  cheer,  good  digestion,  and  happy  good-night ! 
September,  1885. 


MEMORIALS. 


ADELAIDE    NEILSON. 


HE  actress  is  dead  !  The  obituaries  have  all 
been  written,  and,  regardless  of  their  varied 
color  and  tone,  readers  have  formed  their 
W'^  own  estimate  of  the  life  and  work  and  worth 
of  Adelaide  Neilson.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  ver- 
dict is  one  of  universal  admiration.  The  sentiment 
is  respect,  and  the  feeling  sincere  grief.  A  life  of 
honest,  earnest,  conscientious  endeavor  can  safely 
trust  to  post-mortem  criticism.  The  truth  has  already 
b6en  recorded  in  the  work  done,  and  falsehood,  when 
the  subject  is  forever  beyond  its  reach  and  can  not 
reply,  is  its  own  sufficient  commentary  upon  the 
author  or  disseminator. 

For  many  years  no  death  in  the  dramatic  profes- 
sion has  awakened  so  deep  and  general  a  feehng  of 
regret  and  sadness  as  the  final  exit  of  Lilian  Ade- 
laide Neilson.  It  was  unexpected  and  strange  as 
the  sudden  blotting  from  the  sky  of  a  bright  star 
upon  which  all  eyes  were  at  that  moment  turned. 
She  had  just  bade  us  a  professional  farewell,  in 
view  of  her  return  to  England  and  early  and  perma- 
nent retirement  from  public  life,  but  all  who  listened 


MEMORIALS.  1 9 


to  her  last  words  still  cherished  the  hope  of  seeing 
her  again.  The  death  of  this  rare  and  radiant 
woman  in  the  very  noonday  of  her  power  and  the 
harvest  time  of  her  fame  is  one  of  those  events  which 
people  can  not  realize  until  they  feel  the  cold  blank 
for  years,  and  strain  their  eyes  to  recover  a  vision 
which  comes  no  more  before  them.  But  a  few 
days  after  she  left  our  shores  the  peerless  Neilson 
was  dead  in  Paris.  She  had  scarcely  time  to  recover 
her  breath  after  a  long  season's  hard  work  before  she 
was  snatched  away  to  rest,  and  nothing  remains  of 
her  brilliancy  but  the  memory  of  her  fair  outhnes 
and  those  magnetic  tones  in  which  the  souls  of  the 
greatest  creations  of  the  human  intellect  lived  and 
breathed.  The  actor's  art-work  has  no  niche  but 
actual  presence  on  the  scene;  no  frame  but  the 
proscenium,  and  no  page  but  memory.  In  a  moment 
the  voice  and  figure  are  gone,  and  leave  neither  echo 
nor  shadow.  The  painter  transmits  his  pictures,  the 
sculptor  his  figures,  the  architect  his  monumental 
columns  and  domes,  the  poet  his  living,  breathing 
words,  and  the  musician  his  scores,  which  ring  on 
forever,  but  the  actor  leaves  nothing  with  the  stamp 
of  his  genius  upon  it  to  exemplify  and  perpetuate 
the  character  of  his  methods  or  the  masterpieces  of 
his  art.  The  annals  of  the  stage  are  but  skeleton 
etchings  to  those  who  never  heard  or  saw  the  van- 
ished artist  in  whom  the  most  beautiful  dreams  of 
poetry  and  forms  of  thought  lived  and  charmed ; 
kindly  memories  transferred  to  the  printed  page 
are  the  only  enduring  recompense.  Such  feelings 
of  friendliness  and  a  desire  to  render  justice  prompt 


20  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

the  writer  to  pen  his  impressions  of  Adelaide  Neil- 
son. 

It  is  a  matter  of  no  moment  whence  she  sprung, 
who  were  her  ancestors,  or  what  was  her  early  train- 
ing and  condition.  She  came  from  obscurity  and 
rose  to  power,  and  this  record  is  an  honor.  It  mat- 
ters not  whether  the  mingled  blood  of  Spain  and 
England  coursed  in  her  veins  and  developed  a  per- 
son of  singular  and  original  beauty ;  she  entranced 
all  eyes  and  ears  that  came  within  her  influence,  and 
became  the  world's  citizen.  She  got  a  great  public 
hearing,  spoke,  convinced  and  triumphed.  For  many 
thousands  she  made  the  world  more  beautiful  and 
happy  than  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  not  lived 
in  it,  and  her  lips  added  a  sweeter  tone  to  the  Eng- 
lish tongue.  This  audience  naturally  feels  that  a  part 
of  earth's  beauty  has  passed  away  and  that  there  is 
less  to  live  for  since  she  is  gone.  Thus  she  attained 
a  position  in  which  she  contributed  largely  to  the 
world  of  beauty  and  the  store  of  human  happiness. 
She  was  one  of  Art's  cosmopolitans. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  step  by  step  her 
way  to  the  height  and  breadth  of  public  presence 
and  power,  but  her  beginnings,  like  most  of  the  first- 
lings of  genius,  are  obscure.  The  way  up  into  the 
light  was  doubtless  thorny  and  rugged  and  steep,  for 
her  countenance  bore  the  lines  and  shadows  of  suf- 
fering, which  the  sunshine  and  warmth  of  her  nature 
had  moulded  into  features  of  sparkling  expressive- 
ness and  facial  eloquence.  Her  whole  history  of  toil 
and  pain  was  written  on  the  many  pages  of  her  face, 
which  she  turned  over  and  over  in  every  hour  of 


MEMORIALS.  21 


mental  activity  during  professional  work,  or  in  social 
intercourse  with  friends.  It  was  a  story  of  ever- 
changing  color  and  interest  in  which  gUmpses  of  the 
unprinted  page  of  girlhood  could  occasionally  be 
caught. 

Whatever  Neilson's  early  surroundings  and  oppor- 
tunities may  have  been,  there  was  evidently  a  time  in 
her  young  life  when  she  seized  upon  the  gifts  with 
which  nature  had  lavishly  endowed  her,  turned  them 
to  the  best  account,  and  developed  herself  into  a 
woman  of  rare  culture.  She  was  conversant  with 
French,  as  most  educated  English  people  are,  a  good 
Latin  scholar,  and  a  writer  of  elegant  English,  as  her 
friendly  correspondence  abundantly  testifies.  She 
was  also  well  versed  in  polite  and  general  literature, 
kept  the  run  of  politics  and  the  sciences  and  con- 
versed critically  and  entertainingly  of  both  ancient 
and  modern  authors,  among  whom  Shakespeare  was 
the  idol  at  whose  shrine  she  worshiped. 

She  was  poor  and  felt  the  need  of  a  career  aside 
from  the  possible  promptings  of  ambition.  In  cast- 
ing about  for  means  of  honorable  livelihood  she 
seems  to  have  drifted  upon  the  stage,  and  her  first 
work  there  was  doubtless  the  beginning  of  that  cul- 
ture by  which  she  subsequently  achieved  distinction 
and  renown.  Her  predominant  quaUties  and  natural 
tastes  may  have  led  her  into  the  drama ;  or  her  ap- 
pearance on  the  stage  may  have  been  a  fortuitous 
accident;  but  she  found  the  right  place,  as  events 
proved.  Such  a  strong  and  happy  union  of  both 
mental  and  physical  qualities  as  she  possessed  for 
her  adopted  profession   occurs  certainly   not  more 


22  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

than  once  in  an  age,  and  this  combination  of  fitnesses 
is  the  key  which  unlocks  the  secret  of  her  power  and 
phenomenal  success. 

Her  self-culture  gave  her  an  intimate  and  thorough 
knowledge  of  herself,  the  materials  she  had  at  com- 
mand and  her  capacity  to  use  them.  She  knew  what 
she  had  and  its  value  so  well  that  she  never  wasted 
time  or  strength  in  attempts  to  do  anything  which 
she  could  not  master.  By  this  common-sense  econ- 
omy her  efforts  were  always  well  directed  and 
crowned  with  the  logical  compensation.  She  put 
her  faculties  to  work  by  rule,  and  instinctively  fol- 
lowed art  principles,  yet  in  the  whirlwind  of  action 
she  was  often  caught  up,  lifted  to  a  region  above  law 
and  reached  results  by  inspiration.  She  did  every- 
thing she  set  out  to  do,  and  in  her  own  way,  which 
could  not  have  been  taught  her  and  which  she  could 
not  have  taught  another.  She  absorbed  a  character 
until  it  became  built  up  and  compact  in  her  being, 
and  she  breathed  into  it  a  living  soul.  Often  her 
readings  would  not  bear  the  criticism  of  elocution, 
but  they  nevertheless  produced  the  true  artistic  ef- 
fects ;  and  she  had  tricks  of  voice  and  intonation 
which  flashed  the  sentiment  and  struck  the  key  of 
awakened  sympathy  with  harmonious  touch.  Thus 
her  accompaniments  to  the  lines,  in  tone,  movement, 
business  and  general  expression,  were  never  out  of 
tune.  Her  volume  of  voice  was  limited;  she  never 
committed  the  offense  of  overstraining  it,  but  adopted 
the  intense  expression  of  suppression,  which  was  her 
method  of  producing  effects  she  could  not  reach  by 
declamation.     Her  treatment  grew  naturally  out  of 


MEMORIALS.  23 


her  own  physical  and  mental  materials,  and  so  devel- 
oping she  could  never  have  become  the  slave  of  an- 
other's method,  or  an  imitator  of  mere  personality  or 
mannerism.  Her  mannerisms  —  neither  emphasized 
nor  obstrusive  —  were  her  own,  and  tinted  her  work 
with  a  mellow  individual  coloring.  She  was  a  great 
artist — first,  because  she  knew  Neilson,  and  re- 
spected the  acquaintance  enough  to  be  true  to  her- 
self; and  again  because,  led  by  true  dramatic  instinct 
and  feeling,  she  never  swerved  from  the  path  and 
purpose  of  art.  With  instinctive  certitude  she  seized 
upon  a  line  of  characters  for  which,  in  person,  she 
seemed  to  have  been  specially  created,  and  held 
them  with  such  a  grasp  that  none  of  her  competitors 
could  wrest  them  from  her.  She  appropriated  them 
by  the  right  of  conquest,  and  held  them  by  the 
might  of  both  body  and  mind.  They  were  Shake- 
speare's women  —  the  noblest  ideal  types  of  woman- 
hood—  Juliet,  Rosalind,  Viola,  Imogen  and  Isabella. 
She  looked  into  Shakespeare's  page  as  into  a  mirror 
wherein  she  viewed  in  reflected  transfiguration  the 
characters  as  they  would  appear  in  her  embodiment. 
She  became  incandescent  of  the  character  and  arose 
from  her  studies  —  not  a  superficial  reflection  of  Juliet 
and  the  others,  but  the  living  ideal,  glowing  with  the 
bard's  poetic  fire  in  a  figure  fitly  framed  to  embody 
his  dreams  of  beauty.  She  filled  the  eye  first  as  the 
ideal  form ;  she  moved  and  spoke  and  the  illusion 
was  perfect.  She  felt,  rejoiced  and  suffered  with 
the  character,  and  actually  passed  through  every  pas- 
sion and  emotion  implied  by  the  dramatic  situation. 
She  did  not  simulate  either  smiles  or  tears  —  they 


24  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

came  unbidden  and  were  beyond  her  control  when 
she  and  the  character  were  moulded  into  one  under 
the  poetic  spell.  The  woman  was  oblivious  of  the 
world  around  her  while  she  ministered  as  high  priest- 
ess in  the  consecrated  temple  of  art. 

Neilson's  first  love  and  most  renowned  character 
was  Juliet,  though  it  is  doubtful  if  Juliet  were  her 
most  excellent  work.  Still,  it  is  beyond  question 
she  was  the  great  Juliet  of  her  time,  if  not  the  great- 
est of  all  time.  The  annals  and  traditions  of  the 
English  stage  have  no  previous  records  of  a  mind 
and  physique  combining  such  poetic  and  personal 
fitness  for  that  opening  bud  of  maiden's  love,  as  they 
harmoniously  blended  and  bloomed  in  the  Juliet  of 
Adelaide  Neilson.  Could  he  have  seen  her,  the  great 
bard  himself  would  have  been  cheated  into  believing 
the  reality  of  his  own  beauty  dream.  But  it  was  in 
comedy  that  Neilson  felt  especially  at  home  and  was 
essentially  great.  Among  the  heroines  of  Shake- 
spearian comedy  she  reigned  supreme,  rose  to  heights 
of  excellence  never  before  attained  and  left  no  one 
in  sight  worthy  to  take  up  and  wear  her  toppled 
crown.  Suddenly  dashed  from  her  brow,  it  lies  as 
it  fell  —  its  gems  enshrouded  in  mourning  wreaths, 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  Rosalind,  Viola  and  Imogen, 
and  JuHet  from  the  balcony  can  not  say  as  once  she 
did:  — 

"  Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again." 

Juliet  will  be  long  coming. 

Neilson's  industry  was  untiring,  her  energy  in- 
domitable and  her  study  severe  and  perpetual.    When 


MEMORIALS. 


speaking  of  her  characters  she  dropped  into  them 
trance-like  and  seemed  to  think  their  thoughts  and 
utter  their  souls.  Juliet  was  her  training  companion 
until  the  fierce  heat  of  young  and  disastrous  love 
melted  actress  and  character  into  one.  From  this 
plastic  congeniality,  heated  by  the  fire  of  genius  and 
ever  in  action,  other  characters  were  rounded  and 
forms  moulded  as  life  dashed  on.  There  was  no 
stopping  place,  no  rest.  After  years  of  toil  devoted 
to  each,  Rosalind  and  Viola  and  Imogen  successively 
came  in  her  person  and  were  indissolubly  mingled  in 
her  being.  In  these  noble  female  characters  who 
don  the  masculine  garb,  the  actress  was  singularly 
graceful  under  the  disguise  and  conscientiously  true 
to  the  dramatic  purpose.  The  dramatist's  delicate 
poetic  tracery  of  feminine  purity  and  modesty  in  the 
masculine  mask  never  received  finer  touch  and  color- 
ing than  at  the  hands  of  this  greatest  Shakespearian 
comedienne.  She  especially  loved  Imogen  as  Shake- 
speare's paragon  woman  —  combining  in  her  charac- 
ter the  true  love  and  young  passion  of  Juliet,  the 
romantic  devotion  of  Rosahnd,  and  the  pathetic 
constancy  and  fidelity  of  Viola.  And  with  Imogen 
Neilson's  work  was  crowned. 

Adelaide  Neilson  was  one  of  the  few  dramatic 
artists  who  stood  faithfully  and  lovingly  by  the  legiti- 
m.ate  English  drama  during  its  years  of  peril  from 
the  vicious  French  invasion  and  the  pernicious  un- 
dressed and  unwashed  camp  followers ;  and  be  it  said 
to  her  lasting  honor  that  she  earned  her  triumphs  in 
making  lovable  models  of  virtue  presented  in  the 
highest  types  of  her  sex.     This  was  the  aim  and 


26  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

the  grand  result  of  her  life-work  in  the  field  of 
dramatic  art,  and  no  actress,  living  or  dead,  has  per- 
formed her  mission  more  thoroughly  or  deserves  a 
dearer  place  in  English  memory. 

Her  public  career  stamped  her  as  a  woman  of  the 
world  by  the  same  law  that  would  in  private  sur- 
roundings have  made  her  a  darling  of  society.  Her 
lot  was  cast  in  the  light  of  public  gaze  constantly 
beating  upon  her,  and  this  pervading  publicity  always 
throws  personal  character  upon  the  defensive.  She 
had  but  few  intimate  friends,  and  even  among  the 
few,  some  crawled  into  her  confidence  who  proved 
unworthy  of  trust.  Those  whose  friendship  she  re- 
jected confirmed  her  judgment  by  the  character  of 
their  retaliation.  She  was  grossly  abused ;  she  suf- 
fered intensely,  and  she  was  capable  of  supreme 
happiness.  She  had  corresponding  depressions  — 
dark  moments  —  but  her  spirit  was  elastic  and  soon 
rebounded  into  the  light.  The  soul  of  summer  sun- 
shine streamed  gleeful  and  golden  around  her  little 
social  circle,  when  worldly  reserve  gave  place  to 
natural  impulse.  She  forgot  herself  in  her  friends, 
and  lived  every  one's  enjoyment,  which  so  much  mag- 
nified her  own.  She  was  a  fluent  conversationaHst, 
natural  in  manner,  spontaneous  in  matter,  overflowing 
with  good  humor  and  quick  at  repartee.  Her  humor 
was  kindly  and  her  topics  were  all  womanly.  She 
had  no  heartless  jests  or  hard  words  for  her  friends  or 
foes,  and  no  harsh  criticisms  for  her  professional  sis- 
ters and  brothers.  If  she  had  nothing  good  to  say, 
she  said  nothing.  As  a  member  she  honored  her 
profession.     Her  manners  and  speech  were  singularly 


MEMORIALS.  2/ 


refined,  her  impulses  were  all  generous  and  noble, 
and  her  friendships  sincere.  Her  heart  sprang  to  the 
surface  at  a  tale  of  distress,  and  her  hand  obeyed  the 
finest  instincts  of  human  nature  in  the  practice  of 
charity,  her  many  acts  of  which  were  strictly  private 
and  never  paraded  in  print.  She  had  a  just  estimate 
of  the  commercial  value  of  her  work  and  was  a  strict 
woman  of  business.  Her  rigid  principles  and  habits 
of  business  sometimes  subjected  her  to  the  charge 
of  grasping  parsimony,  which  did  her  heart  wrong 
and  misprized  her  generous  nature.  If  those  with 
whom  she  had  business  transactions  would  consult 
their  books  and  compare  her  figures  with  other  sim- 
ilar profits,  they  will  write  down  "justice"  to  her 
credit  at  the  close  of  their  last  accounts. 

No  one  could  have  been  in  the  company  of  Ade- 
laide Neilson  five  minutes  without  receiving  the  im- 
pression that  she-  was  a  woman  of  rich  mental 
resources,  wide  cultivation,  great  experience  of  the 
world  and  extraordinary  force  of  character.  Her 
presence  was  magnetic  and  filled  the  room  with  its 
quiet  luminousness.  There  was  nothing  exaggerated 
or  emphasized  or  loud  or  stagy  in  her  demeanor  — 
quite  the  reverse.  While  an  entertaining  talker,  she 
was  an  attentive  listener.  She  never  spoke  of  her 
profession  or  her  own  work  unless  the  subject  was 
introduced  by  another,  and  then  she  was  charmingly 
communicative  on  matters  pertaining  to  the  stage. 
But  she  talked  more  of  the  general  principles  of  art 
and  the  development  of  dramatic  characters  than  of 
what  she  herself  did  or  aimed  to  do.  She  had  strong 
opinions   upon   these  subjects,    which   showed   the 


28  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

character  of  her  studies,  the  thoroughness  of  her  art- 
culture,  and  that  she  knew  every  step  of  the  way  to 
her  results  and  position. 

There  was  also  in  the  Neilson  presence  a  strange, 
indescribable  something,  which,  notwithstanding  her 
artless  openness,  hinted  of  untold  trials  and  unwrit- 
ten history.  To  those  who  made  her  a  study  she 
was  an  enigma  constantly  giving  her  own  solution  — 
yet  still  an  enigma.  She  apparently  laid  herself  de- 
fenseless, yet  she  was  still  armed.  The  luminous 
impression  she  photographed  of  herself  yesterday 
was  not  exactly  her  picture  of  to-day.  She  was  al- 
ways the  same,  yet  ever  new,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
a  reserved  mentality  like  a  shield,  always  at  com- 
mand. This  attitude  of  intellectual  defense  may 
have  been  taken  and  maintained  in  consequence  of 
domestic  troubles,  which  were  supposed  to  be  known 
to  all,  but  which  could  not  be  openly  discussed.  She 
was  married  young  and  unhappily;  there  was  no 
congeniality  of  temperament  or  tastes  in  the  hfe 
partnership,  and  there  were  other  causes  which  im- 
pelled her  to  seek  divorce,  and  enabled  her  to  obtain 
it.  The  decree  was  granted  in  New  York,  after  she 
had  been  legally  enrolled  in  the  court  records  as  a 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  These  proceedings 
made  rumor  busy  with  her  name,  but  she  continued 
her  work  with  ever  culminating  success. 

Before  her  last  visit  to  this  country,  in  performance 
of  that  series  of  engagements  which  was  her  last,  she 
had  engaged  herself  to  marry  an  English  gentleman 
of  rank  and  high  social  position,  which  contract  in- 
cluded her  final  retirement  from  public  life.     This 


MEMORIALS.  2g 


matrimonial  engagement  has  been  the  theme  of  much 
discussion  by  correspondents  and  comment  by  edi- 
tors, altogether  placing  her  in  a  false  light.  When 
she  was  last  in  St.  Louis  she  distinctly  stated  to  the 
writer  that  she  was  compelled  to  leave  the  stage  to 
save  her  life,  and  that  she  was  to  marry  a  gentleman  — 
twenty  years  her  senior — connected  with  the 
British  Court,  who  had  been  long  a  suitor  for  her 
hand.  She  did  not  mention  the  name,  but  certain 
references  and  statements  since  her  death  leave  little 
doubt  that  her  betrothed  was  Rear  Admiral  Hon. 
Henry  Carr  Glyn,  C.  B.,  C.  S.  I.,  whose  name  has 
been  mentioned  in  connection  with  her  death  and 
funeral.  Physicians  had  already  admonished  her 
that  her  work  was  killing  her,  and  she  often  had 
warnings  that  this  was  true.  She  worked  with  every 
faculty  of  her  mind  and  every  nerve  and  fiber  of  her 
body,  and  from  such  severe  tension,  after  her  acts 
she  often  fell,  fainting.  She  used  to  say  that  after 
the  potion  scene  of  Juliet  her  heart  seemed  to  **shut 
up  "  suddenly  and  cease  its  functions.  During  her 
seasons  of  work  many  of  her  day-times  were  racks 
of  pain,  in  the  tortures  of  which  she  would  have  given 
the  whole  profits  of  her  engagement  for  "just  one 
day  off, "  as  she  quaintly  expressed  it.  Thus  she 
became  a  martyr  to  her  art,  and  too  early  died  the 
martyr's  death. 

In  person  Adelaide  Neilson  was  a  woman  of  won- 
derful fascination  and  charm.  Her  figure  was  slender 
and  lithe;  her  complexion  brunette,  and  her  hair 
golden  brown.  Separately  her  features  were  not 
regularly   handsome,  excepting   the   great   lustrous 


30  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

eyes,  of  wondrous  depth,  yet  in  action  her  face 
was  music,  and  poetry,  and  painting  incarnate — a 
beauty-trinity.  The  make-up  for  character,  of 
stage  usage,  and  necessity,  did  not  heighten  her 
personal  charm,  for  she  was  even  more  dazzHng  off 
the  stage  than  on.  Her  social  friends  were  favored 
with  the  best  of  her,  and  saw  her  in  her  richest 
beauty's  light  and  life.  Her  popularity  and  profes- 
sional success  were  by  some  placed  to  the  credit  of 
her  personal  attractions,  but  she  grandly  triumphed 
over  this  slighting  imputation.  The  best  proof  of  the 
victory  of  the  intellectual  over  the  merely  factitious 
in  her  composition  is  the  fact  that  the  large  majority 
of  her  audiences  and  admirers  were  of  her  own  sex. 
The  ladies  everywhere  outbid  and  outdid  the  gen- 
tlemen in  yielding  her  their  incense  of  admiration. 
The  source  of  this  attraction  was  Neilson's  own  large 
humanity  and  broad  womanhood,  which  compelled 
responsive  homage.  The  diamond  is  never  eclipsed 
by  its  setting,  and  Neilson's  chiefest  jewel  was  her 
true  feminine  mentality. 

During  her  last  visit  to  St.  Louis  some  friends  took 
her  to  see  the  bronze  Shakespeare  in  Tower  Grove 
Park,  with  which  she  was  greatly  pleased,  and  which 
she  regarded  as  more  eloquent  of  power  than  any 
Shakespeare  she  had  ever  seen.  She  looked  at  the 
statue  and  the  embellishments  of  its  pedestal  from 
all  points  of  view,  and  became  desirous  of  contribut- 
ing something  to  the  Shakespeare  surroundings.  She 
promised  to  visit  Stratford  at  her  earliest  conven- 
ience, obtain  a  slip  of  the  Shakespeare  mulberry  and 
send  it  over  to  be  planted  in  her  name.     She  stepped 


MEMORIALS. 


off  the  ground  at  the  back  of  the  statue  and  marked 
the  spot  where  she  would  like  the  tree  to  grow.  She 
was  not  permitted  to  fulfill  her  promise. 

In  the  death  of  Adelaide  Neilson  the  English 
stage  was  robbed  of  one  of  its  chiefest  adornments, 
and  the  drama  of  one  of  its  potent  exponents. 
Each  individual  of  her  great  audience  feels  her 
"taking  off"  as  a  personal  loss,  a  sad  bereavement 
of  the  eye  and  heart,  and  many  Americans  who  may 
hereafter  visit  England  will  make  pilgrimages  of  love 
and  memory  to  a  grave  at  Brompton. 


THE    NEILSON    MULBERRY. 


^^^NE  windy  afternoon  in  March,  1880,  Adelaide 
Neilson  went  with  friends  to  Tower  Grove 
Park,  St.  Louis,  to  see  the  Shakespeare  bronze, 

"^T^  descriptions  of  which  had  awakened  her  in- 
terest. To  one  of  the  friends  she  had  written  from 
a  distant  city :  — 

"A  Httle  strolling  player  will  soon  Visit  dear  St. 
Louis,  alas !  for  the  last  time  !  Thinking  of  it  I 
weep  tears  of  sorrow !  " 

As  she  had  resolved  to  retire  from  her  profession 
and  live  at  home,  in  England,  she  felt  it  her  duty  to 
see  the  Tower  Grove  statues.  Neilson  was  in  her 
happiest  mood,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  chat  and 
laugh  under  a  shadow.  She  had  frequent  warnings. 
The  doctors  had  told  her  to  quit  work,  she  said,  but 
the  sudden  summons  would  come.  She  was  sure 
of  that,  and  the  certainty  gave  her  life  a  new  zest. 

The  drive  in  the  park  was  exhilarating,  and  she  was 
brilliant  as  nature's  budding  green.  The  **  Hum- 
boldt "  was  soon  passed,  for  "  Shakespeare,"  in  sight, 
attracted  her  with  a  magnet's  charm.  She  stood 
before  the  figure  for  a  time  in  reverence.  She 
viewed  it  from  all  sides,  in  the  changing  lights  and 
shadows  of  a  mottled  sky,  and  talked  while  she 
ivalked.  The  "  Shakespeare  "  lived  to  her,  and  she 
was  familiar  yet  solemn  in  the  presence. 


MEMORIALS.  33 


"  Old  fellow,  you  have  done  a  great  deal  for  me, 
a  great  deal  for  me,"  she  repeated,  slowly  weighing 
her  words  and  nodding  her  head.  She  finally  came 
to  a  stand  and  said :  "  Here  it  has  the  greatest 
power  of  expression  and  pose." 

The  point  of  view  was  quartering  to  the  north, 
about  forty  feet  from  the  base.  The  inspection  over, 
she  was  asked  what  she  thought  of  it,  and  she  replied ; 

*'  I  think  that  among  all  the  Shakespeare  memo- 
rials, public  and  private,  this  is  the  best  I  have  seen." 

One  of  the  friends  suggested  that  she  might  furnish 
a  memento  of  her  visit  to  the  statue  by  sending  a 
Shakespeare  mulberry  to  be  planted  near.  Her  face 
lighted  up  as  she  replied  :  — 

"  I  shall  be  too  happy !  It  will  be  a  pleasure,  and 
I  feel  honored  in  the  privilege." 

She  then  stepped  off  several  paces  from  the  base 
at  the  back  of  the  statue,  until  the  distance  seemed 
right,  and  turning  her  dainty  boot-heel  in  the  sod, 
she  said :  — 

"  Soon  as  I  return  to  England,  I  shall  go  to  Strat- 
ford first,  before  London,  and  I  promise  to  send  a 
Shakespeare  mulberry  slip  to  be  planted  here." 

And  when  the  carriage  moved  away  her  face  was 
turned  to  the  "  Shakespeare  "  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight. 

She  never  saw  Stratford  again,  and  only  her  dust 
ever  reached  England. 

The  promised  mulberry  "slip"  never  came,  but 
Mr.  Henry  Shaw  furnished  a  mulberry  tree  from  his 
gardens,  and  he  and  Mr.  N.  M.  Ludlow,  the  oldest 
actor  and  dramatic  manager  living,  Mr.  Thomas 
Dimmock,  one  of  the    "friends,"  and   Thomas    E. 


34  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Garrett,  planted  the  tree  at  the  spot  designated,  in 
memory  of  the  great  Juliet,  Rosalind,  Viola,  and 
Imogene,  —  Adelaide  Neilson,  whose  art  and  person 
created  and  embodied  the  most  perfect  verisimili- 
tudes of  these  lovely  women  of  Shakespeare  prob- 
ably that  the  world  ever  saw. 

Mr.  Shaw  supplemented  this  act  with  a  marble 
tablet  bearing  the  inscription :  "  Mulberry  tree, 
planted  on  the  spot  marked  by  Adelaide  Neilson 
March  25,  1880." 

And  the  "  Neilson  mulberry,"  in  the  place  of  the 
"  Shakespeare  slip,"  buds,  blossoms  and  bears,  and 
will  keep  the  "  little  strolling  player's "  memory 
green  in  the  years  to  come. 

IN   MEMORIAM. 
The  spirit  of  Nature,  robed  in  leafy  green, 

Finds  here  her  favorite  pleasure-ground  retreat ; 
Where  toilsome  Art  has  set  the  sylvan  scene. 

And  strewn  rich  tributes  at  her  mistress'  feet. 

Humboldt  and  Shakespeare  in  one  vista  rise  — 
Explorers  of  untrodden  ways  —  untaught! 

The  one,  by  conquest,  made  the  earth  man's  prize, 
The  other  crystallized  the  world  of  thought. 

In  Shakespeare's  presence  Neilson  bowed  the  knee  — 
Here  later  pilgrims  come  to  honor  her. 

And  here  the  poet's  own  memorial  tree 
Recalls  sweet  Juliet's  best  interpreter. 

O  Mother  Nature !  these  lived  near  to  thee  — 
Thy  chosen  children  —  born  to  tell  thy  truth; 

And  here  they  keep  thy  loving  company, 
And  share  the  bloom  of  thine  eternal  youth. 


■'   " 


^    '■    ■■    "    * 


MATILDA  HERON. 


ATILDA  HERON  had  been  an  invalid 
for  some  years,  living  in  close  retirement. 
During  this  period  of  seclusion  she  was  also 
^^^^^  the  recipient  of  public  and  private  benefits 
from  her  professional  friends,  who  never  forgot  or  de- 
serted her,  but  attentively  ministered  to  her  comforts. 
Matilda  Heron  had  a  daughter  whom  she  trained  for 
professional  life.  The  reciprocal  idolatry  between 
the  mother  and  daughter  was  beautiful.  The  mother 
seemed  to  be  sensible  of  an  incomplete  career,  and 
she  gathered  up  the  wrecks  of  her  hopes  and  filled 
the  girl  with  their-  spirit  that  the  daughter  might 
complete  what  the  mother  left  unfinished.  The 
daughter  was  blind  to  the  raggedness  of  these 
wrecks  and  regarded  her  mother  as  crowned  with  a 
rosy  fame  which  could  never  fade.  This  intercourse 
and  confidence  was  a  peculiarly  sweet  association  of 
the  invalid's  darkened  chamber  in  her  latter  years. 
Bijou  was  a  bright  spark  struck  out  of  Matilda 
Heron's  being  by  the  flint  and  steel  of  circumstances, 
and  her  Hfe  closed  in  the  radiance  of  its'light. 

Matilda  Heron  was  of  Irish  extraction,  and  her 
family  took  up  their  residence  in  Philadelphia  during 
her  early  years.     She  received  a  seminary  education 


36  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

and  at  an  upper  window  of  the  seminary  Matilda 
Heron  dreamed  her  first  dream  of  fame.  The 
stormy  applause  of  the  theater  shot  across  the  street 
on  summer  nights  and  found  an  echo  in  the  school 
girl's  heart.  She  resolved  to  become  an  actress,  and 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  family  she  placed  her- 
self under  the  instruction  of  Mr.  Peter  Richings. 
She  proved  an  apt  pupil,  and  made  her  debut  as 
Bianca  in  the  tragedy  of  "  Fazio."  She  had  already 
mastered  the  words  of  five  or  six  of  the  leading 
heroines  of  the  drama.  But  she  was  not  qualified 
for  a  leading  lady  in  a  company,  and  had  not  the 
prestige  to  command  attention  as  a  star.  She  was, 
therefore,  obliged  to  come  down  the  ladder  and  go 
to  work  at  the  bottom  of  it.  After  years  of  patient 
toil  she  set  sail  for  Europe,  alone.  She  went  to  see 
the  world  and  study  her  art,  and  drifted  to  Paris. 
Here,  at  the  theater  one  night  an  incident  occurred 
which  opened  to  her  a  world  of  hope  and  promise. 
She  was  sitting  at  the  play  "  Camille "  absorbed 
in  the  scenes  when  some  one  familiarly  tapped 
her  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  *'  Tilly,  that's  a  play 
that  would  make  your  fortune,  if  you  would  trans- 
late it  for  America."  It  was  Alexander  Heron  — 
her  brother  —  whom  she  had  not  seen  or  spoken  to 
for  years,  who  had  given  himself  this  novel  re-intro- 
duction. The  brother  and  sister  were  thus  recon- 
ciled, after  a  long  estrangement,  and  saw  Paris 
together.  Matilda  Heron  translated  and  adapted  the 
play  for  American  presentation,  and  brought  it  home 
with  her.  It  proved  the  realization  of  the  school 
girl's  dream  of  fame. 


MEMORIALS.  3/ 


She  played  Camille,  in  all,  nearly  two  thousand 
times.  The  latter  part  of  Matilda  Heron's  public 
life  was  somewhat  clouded  by  unfortunate  domestic 
relations,  but  it  was  still  illuminated  with  brilliant 
memories.  She  was  married  in  New  York  to  a  Mr. 
Robert  Stoepel,  a  musician,  and  the  fruits  of  this 
union  were  domestic  discontent  and  two  or  three 
children,  of  whom  Bijou  Heron  (Stoepel)  is  the 
only  survivor,  and  the  custodian  of  her  mother's 
name. 

Matilda  Heron's  life  was  one  of  the  most  romantic 
of  stage  careers,  and  towards  the  last  she  was  pos- 
sessed with  an  idea  of  writing  it,  or  having  it  written. 
The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  on  this  sub- 
ject. It  is  dated  San  Francisco,  October  20,  1872  — 
while  she  was  there  attending  to  the  "  Heron-Byrne 
case." 

**  Possibly  you  have  seen  accounts  of  the  ordeal  I 
am  passing  through  here,  and  if  so  you  have  learned 
a  part  of  what  I  have  lately  suffered.  But  the  great 
Ruler  above  knows  the  burning  suffering  of  my 
crushed  heart  during  the  past  seven  years.  To  Him 
alone  I  confided  my  great  woe,  and  still  know  He 
who  doeth  all  things  well  will  not  desert  me.  I  am 
tormented  past  endurance  with  the  heart  sores  and 
mental  turbulence  which  the  fates  have  visited  upon 
me,  for  I  can  not  believe  that  the  Healing  One  has 
had  a  hand  in  my  most  lamentable  and  pathetic  his- 
tory. Religion  alone  has  kept  my  soul  alive;  my 
darling  child  has  preserved  my  heart.  As  for  my 
body,  were  it  not  for  those  other  two  divine  strengths 
it  would  have  been  mouldering  long  ago. 


38  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

"  Now  I  desire  to  tell  you  that  I  am  writing  my 
life  from  the  time  I  was  a  child  seven  years  old  in 
Ireland.  When  once  I  spoke  to  you  of  writing  my 
life,  little  did  I  dream  then  of  the  clouded  chapters 
destined  to  be  added  to  it.  The  Heron-Byrne  case 
is  the  most  intricate  to  adjudge  that  has  ever  come 
up.  In  fact  it  is  puzzling  every  head  concerned  in  it 
except  my  own — Matilda  Heron,  plaintiff ;  Henry 
Byrne,  her  husband ;  Robert  Stoepel,  husband  No. 
2 ;  Edward  Carpenter,  defendant.  We  are  all  a 
pretty  set  in  a  pretty  mess.  The  only  joke  about  it 
is  that  it  is  poor  Camille  who  has  got  them  into  a 
scrape.  But  to  my  life.  It  will  be  too  voluminous, 
I  fear.  I  am  now  only  up  to  my  eighteenth  year, 
and  I  am  told  by  experts  that  I  have  written  a  vol- 
ume already.  It  will  include  all  that  has  passed  in 
my  eventful  years,  comic,  humorous,  serious  and 
tragic." 

Another  letter  on  the  same  subject  is  dated  New 
York,  September  22,  1873  :  — 

"  My  life  sketches  are  almost  completed.  My  aim, 
indeed  my  sole  purpose,  has  been  to  show  a  faithful 
picture  of  the  struggles,  hopes,  disappointments,  fail- 
ures, successes,  clouds  and  sunshine  through  which 
an  artist  may  be  tempest-tossed  upon  the  sea  of  am- 
bition and  yet  triumph  in  the  end.  But  a  holier  pur- 
pose far,  also,  has  urged  me  to  this  little  history, 
namely :  To  give  strength  to  toiling,  struggling  youth 
and  virtue ;  to  show  that  even  after  daisies,  thorns, 
laurels,  darkness  and  failure- — with  a  pure  record  in 
the  past,  and  faith  in  heaven  at  all  times,  the  heart, 
however  scarred;    the  mind,   however   racked;  the 


MEMORIALS.  39 


spirit,  however  broken  ;  the  scorpion  sting  of  ingrati- 
tude, the  wreck  of  our  shattered  household  gods  — 
all  this,  and  more  and  worse,  may  be  and  can  be 
made  well  —  all  soothed,  all  healed  by  the  glad  sun- 
shine of  blameless  memories,  a  pure  heart,  holy  pur- 
pose, a  determined  will  and  God  on  our  side.  There's 
where  the  heart's-ease  comes  in." 

These  extracts  are  introduced  to  show  how  the 
woman  thought  of  the  troubles  that  beset  her,  and 
how  she  derived  consolation  in  the  further  thought 
that  her  life  history  might  be  of  benefit  to  others. 
Matilda  Heron  was  an  erratic  genius  —  in  this  respect 
not  unlike  some  others  who  have  adorned  the  stage. 
She  was  impulsive  in  the  extreme,  which  trait  made 
friends  as  a  magnet  picks  up  needles,  and  sometimes 
these  friends  injured  her,  but  she  soon  forgave  their 
stabs.  Her  impulses  were  all  good.  There  have 
been  longer  careers  than  Matilda  Heron's,  but  none 
more  brilliant  on  the  American  stage.  She  came 
out  of  darkness,  like  a  meteor,  swept  the  skies  with 
a  wonderful  light,  and  has  now  faded  from  sight, 
but  her  course  is  still  luminous  with  the  glory  of  her 
art. 


NATHANIEL   PASCHALL. 


VACANT  place  is  here,  a  soul  has  flown 
To  the  dim  regions  of  the  vast  unknown ; 
|M^  A  friend  we  knew  and  loved,  a  man  of  might. 
Has  burst  his  bonds  of  clay,  and  joined  his 
kindred  light. 

In  every  walk  of  varied  life's  career 
A  good  man  is  a  monarch  in  his  sphere. 
Ambition's  farthest  goal  may  be  denied  — 
A  master's  mind  exults  in  master-pride ; 
Creates  its  solace  for  misfortune's  stings, 
And  rises  grand  —  above  all  little  things. 
Despite  ancestral  pomp,  and  strain  of  blood. 
The  truly  great  are  still  the  purely  good. 


Such  was  the  man  we  mourn ;  in  him  we  knew 
How  much  of  life  to  one's  own  self  is  due. 
His  bright  example  of  achieved  success. 
Conferring  blessings,  taught  the  way  to  bless. 
Ambitious  only  for  the  general  weal. 
He  felt  his  mission,  and  made  others  feel. 


MEMORIALS. 


41 


His  plodding  tracks  are  evermore  defined 
In  empire's  progress  and  the  march  ftf  mind. 
The  people's  champion  —  worthy  of  their  trust, 
His  pen  was  mighty,  as  his  cause  was  just. 
Sincere  of  purpose,  conscious  of  his  sway. 
He  raised  his  hand,  and  pointed  out  the  way. 
The  Nestor  of  the  Press,  his  name  alone 
Outlasts  the  crumbHng  monumental  stone. 


GEORGE    KNAPP. 


MAN  of  the  people,  he  came 
Among  humble  toilers  to  toil  — 
|ft^       Unfearing  his  hands  to  soil, 

And  zealous  to  earn  a  good  name. 

A  man  'mid  his  fellows  he  rose. 
Of  strong  and  resolute  will, 
A  mission  to  follow  and  fill  — 

Admired  of  his  friends  and  his  foes. 

A  hero  of  action  and  deeds  — 

He  loved  and  strove  for  the  right, 
And  error  was  foiled  in  the  fight 

Of  popular  measures  and  needs. 

A  fast  friend  of  all  friends  forever ; 
The  ties  he  made  lasted  thro'  life, 
Unloosed  by  fortune  or  strife  — 

Strong  bonds  that  Death  only  could  sever. 

A  bulwark  of  Honor  he  stood  — 
Unsullied  as  when  life  began  — 
The  full  years  allotted  to  man. 

And  died  —  beloved,  honored  and  good. 


MEMORIALS.  43 


A  man  of  the  Future  he  stands, 

Assured  by  his  work  in  the  Past; 
He  still  lives  and  labors  —  while  last 

The  monuments  reared  by  his  hands. 

A  man  of  the  People  he  came  — 

Their  champion,  raised  to  command ; 
He  grew  up  —  a  power  in  the  land, 

And  history  honors  his  name. 


THREE   STAGES. 


DELIVERED    AT    THE    CELEBRATION    OF    THE    TWENTV-FIFTH    ANNI- 
VERSARY   OF    THE    MERCANTILE    LIBRARY,   ST.    LOUIS,   MO. 


THE    PIONEER. 


HE   time   and   place:     No   matter  when  or 
where  — 
Suffice  it  that  our  ancestors  were  there, 
Who,  with  the  headstrong  passions  we  pos- 
sess. 
In  uncurbed  force,  subdued  a  wilderness. 


'Twas  somewhere  in  a  broad  and  sunbright  land. 
Ice-walled  and  seagirt ;  one  from  strand  to  strand. 
In  places  where  men  grew  too  thick  to  thrive, 
Like  bees  they  swarmed  and  formed  another  hive. 
The  hardiest  types  of  industry  thus  went 
Singing  to  voluntary  banishment, 
Leaving  the  drones  and  others  well  to  do  — 
Plenty  for  one,  yet  not  enough  for  two  ; 


THREE    STAGES.  45 


But  whither  bound  none  knew ;  none  seemed  to  care, 
'Twas  toward  the  sunset ;  luck  go  with  them  there  ! 
The  gossip  said  :     They  bundled  up  their  goods 
And  ran  a  wild-goose  chase  to  some  backwoods. 
They'll  come  to  grief  and  be  sold  out  for  debt ; 
They're  such  a  roving,  dreamy,  thriftless  set. 
The  emigrant  was  thus  consigned  to  doom 
For  worthlessness  and  morbid  want  of  room. 

At  first  none  know  the  movers  as  they  wind 
Along  the  highway,  leaving  home  behind ; 
Far  on  the  way  their  tattered  canvas  grows 
Familiar  to  each  blustering  wind  that  blows. 
The  toilsome  route  as  by  enchantment  teems* 
With  friendly  huts  and  cheery  log-fire  gleams. 
The  sun-browned  settlers,  from  their  open  door, 
Behold  the  scene  they  acted  years  before. 
The  burly  wagon  leaves  no  room  for  doubt ; 
They  know  the  flax-haired  children  peering  out. 
The  patient  oxen  laboring  at  the  tongue. 
The  oozy  tar-can  'neath  the  axle  swung. 
The  dog,  fatigued  with  fruitless  range  for  game, 
Called  up,  is  first  made  known  to  them  by  name. 
The  careful  wife,  who  'mid  her  household  sits 
Enthroned,  and  gaily  singing  while  she  knits; 
The  man  who  urges  on  his  jaded  team  — 
They  know  them  all  in  some  remembered  dream. 


46  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

They  know  the  country  —  every  foot  of  ground, 
And  rock,  and  tree,  and  stream  for  leagues  around. 
They  know  the  pressing  need  that  sometimes  sends 
A  man  from  home  to  find  his  truest  friends. 
They  know  full  well  he  can  not  reach  that  day 
Their  next  door  neighbor,  twenty  miles  away ; 
They  know  the  stranger,  offer  him  good  cheer. 
And  thus  they  speed  the  hardy  pioneer. 

Though    strange  at  first,  the   truth   he   soon   must 

own  — 
The  further  gone,  the  better  he  is  known. 
Where  men  are  few  and  far,  their  fates  control 
A  nearer,  dearer  sympathy  of  soul. 
Which  robs  the  distance  of  its  lonesome  length 
And  gives  the  friendly  hand-shake  mystic  strengtli. 
He  trusts  the  inspiration  of  that  grip. 
Which  seals  the  bond  of  ^Man's  relationship. 
The  daring  spirit  which  disturbed  his  rest 
Sways  all  the  wide  expansion  of  the  West, 
And  brings  his  heart  where  every  man  can  feel 
Its  throbbing  pulse ;  its  deepest  depths  unseal. 
He  breathes  the  prairie  air ;  his  mind  responds 
To  every  breath,  and  bursts  its  narrow  bonds. 
The  common  cause  makes  every  man  his  friend. 
And  dreams  of  power  with  all  his  future  blend. 

His  journey  ends  —  by  no  blind  fall  of  chance; 
He  owes  to  progress  one  firm  step's  advance ; 


THREE    STAGES.  4/ 


With  hopeful  heart,  and  faith  in  his  strong  hand, 
He  builds  his  home  beyond  the  Border-Land, 
The  frontier  circle  strengthens  its  defense  — 
By  him  extends  its  vast  circumference. 
He  wields  the  forces  of  new  growth  and  skill ; 
New  forms  spring  up  directed  by  his  will. 
He  tills  the  soil,  or  hammers  at  his  trade. 
And  deep  foundations  of  his  life  are  laid. 
He  plants  —  with  all  its  good  and  evil  rife  — 
The  tree  of  knowledge  by  the  fount  of  life ; 
The  fruit  it  bears  in  blest  abundance  grows, 
And  now  the  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose. 

Where  no  law  rules  with  penalties  and  pains, 
'Tis  held  that  absolute  perfection  reigns ; 
We  find  perfection  free  from  blot  or  flaw  — 
The  wilds  of  earth  without  the  need  of  law  — 
Creation's  perfect  form.     Why  uncreate. 
That  cruder  means  may  build  th'  imperfect  state  ? 
Perforce :     Since  first  the  roll  of  dates  began 
'Twas  said  and  sung  the  world  was  made  for  man. 
And  if  for  man,  *twas  needful,  as  'twas  due. 
That  something  still  was  left  for  him  to  do  ; 
And  since  the  primal  world  began  to  move. 
Progress  implied  the  margin  to  improve. 

All  through  this  region  of  the  rose  and  vine 

Are  pilgrims  plodding  toward  some  mountain  shrine, 


48 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


The  belt  of  thrift  extending  o'er  their  track, 
With  hand  to  plough,  and  never  looking  back  ; 
The  wild  herds  driving  from  their  lessening  range, 
And  yielding  fruits  to  nature's  law  of  change ; 
Benign  crusaders,  innocent  of  fame. 
Who  Holy  Lands  from  barren  sloth  reclaim. 
And  draw  from  labor's  almoner  bright  coin 
Of  honest  ring,  which  greed  can  not  purloin. 

The  pioneer,  cast  out,  has  found  a  clime 
Beyond  the  range  of  twin-born  law  and  crime. 
The  civic  law  that  cramped  his  means  for  bread, 
The  social  crime  of  begging  to  be  fed ; 
Escaped  from  bondage,  he  a  freeman  grew. 
And  from  the  waste  he  moulds  the  world  anew. 
He  grasps  the  hills  —  they  to  his  sinews  yield  ; 
He  treads  the  plain,  and  springs  the  fallow  field. 
For  battle  primed,  he  ploughs  and  sows  and  reaps; 
His  armor  guards  his  pillow  while  he  sleeps. 
All  nature  is  at  war  with  him ;  his  foes 
Poison  the  air,  taint  every  brook  that  flows ; 
His  cabin  is  besieged  from  hill  and  glen 
By  savage  beasts  and  still  more  savage  men. 
His  rifle  is  his  law,  and  none  can  blame 
Its  sentence  rendered  with  unerring  aim. 
Full  triumph  crowns  the  prowess  of  his  hand. 
And  brings  his  home  within  the  Border-Land. 
From  such  a  shoot  springs  many  a  family  tree, 
And  who  would  scorn  such  noble  ancestry? 


THREE    STAGES.  49 


THE    MERCHANT. 

The  scene  is  changed.     No  more  the  howling  waste. 
Queen  Beauty  reigns  with  nature's  jewels  graced, 
Where   gloomed   the   woodland,  wave   the  flags  of 

corn, 
And  roses  bloom  where  spread  the  prickly  thorn. 
Where  deep  in  woods  one  shadowy  hut  was  seen. 
Bright  groups  of  dwellings  nestle  on  the  green. 
The  savage  beasts  and  savage  men  are  gone 
Together,  with  their  hunter  following  on. 
Their  tracks  of  fire  and  blood  are  overgrown  ; 
The  monumental  mounds  remain  alone. 

The  pioneer  has  ripened  in  renown ; 
His  cabin  is  the  oldest  house  in  town. 
And  he  the  oldest  citizen,  whose  tongue 
Is  rich  in  marvels  for  the  old  and  young. 
He  tells  them  what  his  rash  adventures  cost ; 
How  one  dark  night  his  youngest  child  was  lost; 
And  how  another  bright  and  manly  boy  — 
A  father's  hope,  a  mother's  darling  joy  — 
Pursuing  hostile  bands  —  a  tearful  tale  — 
Fell  at  his  side  upon  the  Indian  trail. 
And  how  the  savage  yells  then  rent  the  air. 
And  war-paint  brightened  with  its  demon  glare. 
When  flashing  shots  revealed  the  ambuscade. 
And  shot  for  shot  death-dealing  havoc  made. 


50  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

Heroic  deeds  forever  past  and  gone  — 
Dim  memory's  pension  old  age  lives  upon ! 
The  shining  links  of  sturdy  manhood  cast, 
Which  bind  the  present  to  the  lusty  past. 

The  backwoodsman,  one  day,  in  loath  surprise, 

Saw  curling  smoke  from  other  chimneys  rise ; 

One,  two,  three,  four;  and  soon  they  closed  him  round. 

It  seemed  they  left  him  scarce  an  inch  of  ground. 

The  scattering  town  became  a  trading  mart  — 

A  halting  place  to  gather  strength  and  heart, 

For  danger's  front  on  plains  unknown  before. 

Which  swept  in  grandeur  toward  the  golden  shore. 

Before  the  plateau  where  the  village  stood, 

A  wide  majestic  river  poured  his  flood, 

Far  southward  dashing  on  his  heaving  breast 

The  gathered  waters  of  the  great  Northwest. 

Down  from  the  frozen  cloud-land  of  the  North 

This  genius  of  the  valley  wanders  forth, 

Distilling  snows  beneath  his  vapory  wings 

To  strew  his  southern  course  with  cooling  springs. 

He  touches  with  his  watery  wand  the  hills. 

And  dancing  down  their  sides  come  laughing  rills. 

Which  mingle  colors  as  they  onward  glide 

And  paint  the  landscape  spread  on  every  side. 

Flushed  by  the  river-god's  engaging  wiles. 

The  country's  face  breaks  forth  in  joyous  smiles. 


THREE    STAGES.  5  I 


Upon  the  upland  plain  he  lays  his  hand, 
And  marvellous  cities  rise  at  his  command  — 
Endowed  with  all  that  nature's  stores  can  give, 
The  magic  of  his  spirit  bids  them  live. 
Unbarred  he  rolls  upon  his  wheeling  throne 
From  endless  snow  to  endless  summer's  zone. 
And  pours  out  treasures  for  the  people's  needs. 
Who  call  him  "  Father  "  for  his  generous  deeds. 

The  frontier  city,  fed  with  such  supplies. 

Becomes  the  object  of  its  own  surprise. 

From  barbarous  tribes  against  its  growth  arrayed 

It  draws  its  life  by  alchemy  of  trade. 

The  traders  move  their  post  to  mountains  far 

Where  trappers  roam  and  wage  their  savage  war ; 

The  forts  are  razed,  block  houses  disappear. 

And  merchants  count  their  thousands  year  by  year. 

The  mighty  river  bears  upon  his  breast 

The  teeming  products  of  the  great  Northwest. 

Still  one  reproach  !     The  bane  of  envy's  breast  — 
Some  one  pronounced  it  good  —  but  like  the  West. 
The  merchant,  heaping  riches  year  by  year, 
A  grain  of  truth  discerned  beneath  the  sneer. 
He  saw  it  was  not  progress  to  sit  down 
And  let  the  river  cultivate  the  town. 
So  gathered  up  his  wits  to  put  at  rest 
The  noisy  humdrum  rattled  at  the  West. 


52  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

He  planned,  with  hope  of  good  results  to  flow, 

A  trade,  and  traffic,  and  industrial  show ; 

Where  each  should  bring  the  thing  to  demonstrate 

How  men  could  make  a  city  grandly  great, 

They   came  —  the  merchants  with  their  stuffs  and 

wares. 
They  came  —  the  farmers  with  their  shining  shares  ; 
They  came  — the  builders  with  design  and  draft ; 
They  came  —  mechanics  with  their  handicraft. 
Huge  stacks  appeared  of  various  stuffs  for  bread ; 
Of  Indian  weed,  and  iron  ore,  and  lead : 
Of  furs  and  clothing  there  was  many  a  pack, 
And   precious   stones  —  for  building;    diamonds  — 

black. 
And  hemp  and  cotton  products  —  bale  and  coil  — > 
And  all  the  wealth  of  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil. 
But  one,  a  deep-brow'd  man  of  studious  looks. 
Came  bending  with  a  cumbrous  load  of  books. 
Some  others  laughed  at  him,  but  some  there  were 
Who  praised  the  impulse  that  had  led  him  there. 
He  thus  addressed  them  : 

In  these  honored  tomes 
We  find  the  surest  pledge  of  happy  homes; 
The  rest  is  trash,  if  culture  be  denied  — 
More  rich  than  all  our  treasure-house  beside. 
With  giant  strength  impelled  by  youthful  fire. 
We  swamp  the  wheels  of  progress  in  the  mire, 


THREE    STAGES.  53 


When  education  lags  so  far  behind 

The  pride  of  fortune  and  the  need  of  mind. 

The  age  demands  another  class  of  books 

Than  balanced  ledgers,  or  the  running  brooks. 

It  asks  for  libraries,  and  mental  tools, 

And  learned  colleges,  and  public  schools  — 

In  them  the  spirits  of  the  world's  great  men 

Forever  dwell,  and  live  with  us  again. 

Invite  them  here  :  accept  their  helping  hand 

To  move  our  city  from  the  Border  Land ; 

And  found,  a  central  mart  round  which  may  roll 

North,  South,  East,  West  —  a  true  commercial  pole. 

Let  us  the  law  of  equity  obey. 

And  render  sterling  justice,  come  what  may  : 

We're  now  in  court  to  try  our  people's  cause. 

And  plead  revival  of  high  social  laws : 

I've  brought  these  text-books  for  our  empty  shelves  ; 

They  read  the  law  of  justice  to  ourselves  — 

That  solid  basis  upon  which  shall  stand 

Our  wealth,  our  power,  our  station  in  the  land. 

They  heard  his  words :  they  gave  one  ringing  cheer ; 

The  first  result:  we  may  behold  it  here. 

THE    STATESMAN. 

Tne  purer  springs  of  being  sweetly  swell 
As  from  the  depths  of  life's  artesian  well. 
Through  digging  deep  the  crystal  waters  flow 
To  quench  the  thirst  contracted  long  ago. 


54  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  new  life  dawns  'mid  novel  sights  and  sounds, 
And  routine  wanders  from  its  beaten  rounds. 
The  solemn  slumber  of  the  good  old  times 
Awoke  one  morning  roused  by  merrier  chimes  : 
Dear  slow  coach  customs  bred  of  by-gone  days  . 
Were  jostled  from  the  track  by  iron  ways  : 
The  lightning's  wing  was  summoned  from  the  sun 
To  do  earth's  errands,  post  boy's  feet  had  run. 
High  arches  lightly  springing  over  streams, 
Had  realized  in  form  our  spirit-dreams  — 
Clothed  in  the  penciled  b)ows  prismatic  sheen, 
Born  of  two  worlds,  with  just  a  span  between. 
Both  space  and  time  had  yielded  to  the  sway 
Of  subtle  forces  mixed  with  human  clay : 
Distance  dissolved ;  and  in  the  lives  of  men 
One  year  contained  the  former  breadth  of  ten. 
What  more  can  come  as  earth's  increasing  dower  ? 
What  more  can  magnify  man's  realm  of  power  ? 

The  soul  of  art  —  restoring  by  its  grace 

The  lost  ideal  of  a  perfect  race. 

The  forms  of  art  —  by  which  the  struggling  poor 

May  own  a  world  of  beauty  at  their  door. 

The  moulds  in  which  their  better  selves  they  see, 

And  learn  that  labor  is  nobility. 

The  blocks  rough-hewn  of  which  our  temple  stands 
Were  squared  and  laid  by  wisdom's  loving  hands ; 


THREE    STAGES. 


Expanding  zeal  has  not  its  strength  outgrown, 
And  plastic  beauty  dwells  within  the  stone. 

Of  highest  endeavor  in  our  times  of  strife, 

The  statesman  wears  the  crown  of  civil  life. 

He  grasps  the  meaning  of  the  moving  scene  — 

His  country's  honor  towering  in  his  mien ; 

He  breathes  the  blast,  or  lulls  the  storms  of  state 

A  part  of  every  storm  that  makes  him  great ; 

He  stamps  the  laws  of  nations  with  his  name ; 

Among  their  archives  lives  his  ripened  fame. 

His  life  is  one  great  prayer  to  recreate 

A  perfect  world  within  a  perfect  state : 

The  greater  in  the  less  —  so  progress  tends, 

And  so  forever  fails  to  reach  its  ends : 

Save  in  the  charming  semblance  which  it  draws 

Of  peace,  beyond  the  changing  sphere  of  laws. 

Happy  the  land  whose  sons  supremely  great 
Pronounced  the  people  sovereign  in  the  state ; 
Who,  by  the  West  the  way  of  Empire  planned 
To  reach  again  their  Eastern  Fatherland, 
Whose  beacons  flash  far  o'er  the  circling  seas, 
And  light  the  rear  of  darkened  centuries. 

Honor  to  him  whose  prescient  sight  begun 
To  look  for  India  toward  the  setting  sun. 
Whose  mind  far-piercing  saw  the  coming  day, 
When  passless  heights  would  bear  the  iron  way. 


56  THE   MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

Crags  yielded  to  his  voice  that  never  bent 
Before  the  storms  that  shook  the  firmament. 
He  spoke :  the  truth  was  living  on  his  tongue, 
And  with  his  words  the  world's  horizon  rung : 
There  is  the  East.     Beyond  the  mountains  where 
The  sun  sank  down,  we  went,  and  found  it  there. 
Bright,  burning  words  —  fit  crown  for  his  career ; 
Star  of  the  West !     The  brightest  in  our  sphere. 
Until  the  world  in  swallowing  darkness  drops 
His  light  will  linger  on  the  mountain  tops. 
We,  with  the  daring  which  his  presence  lent 
Should  hew  a  mountain  for  his  monument ! 
High  on  its  peak,  in  characters  of  flame 
Among  the  stars  should  glitter  Benton's  name. 

The  human  stream  long  stagnant  at  its  source. 
In  dashing  westward  gained  in  breadth  and  force. 
The  mantling  pool  with  face  unruffled  lies 
Still,  staring  sphinx-like  at  the  Indian  skies. 
The  living  waters  rolled  with  freshening  sweep 
And  man  became  a  boisterous,  billowy  deep. 
The  mass  contained  fierce  elements  of  war, 
And  lashed  by  storms,  the  clouds  were  borne  afar. 
Until  they  fell  'mid  peaceful  rainbow  gleams, 
And  other  fountains  nourished  other  streams. 
The  desert,  laughing,  woke  with  glad  surprise, 
And  other  gardens  bloomed  'neath  other  skies. 
Beneath  the  sky-emblazoned  banner  bright, 


THREE    STAGES.  5/ 


The  currents  sparkle  with  a  living  light, 

And  carry  to  the  sunset's  crimson  bars 

The  glow  of  all  our  galaxy  of  stars :  , 

Resistless  foams  and  pours  the  surging  host 

Adown  the  mountains  of  the  golden  coast : 

Impetuous,  free  and  scorning  tranquil  ease 

They  leap  the  west-gate  of  the  Indian  seas. 

As  from  the  clouds  they  seek  their  place  of  birth 

And  draw  a  living  girdle  'round  the  earth. 

The  light  which  fades  from  evening's  closing  eyes 

Bursts  through  the  opening  lids  of  morning  skies. 

The  setting  beam  by  tall  Sierras  hid 

Awakes  the  dawn  on  mosque  and  pyramid : 

The  East  and  West  merge  worlds  across  the  main. 

And  guard  their  compact  with  a  golden  chain. 

Our  country :  When  in  song  we  speak  thy  name, 
We  give  thee  his  whose  'twas  by  rightful  claim, 
Columbia  —  daughter  of  a  virgin  clime  — 
Thou  grandest  figure  in  the  halls  of  Time : 
Exalted,  thou  canst  view  on  either  hand 
Thy  kindred  peoples  drawn  from  every  land. 
Far  as  thy  vision  bears,  deep  waving  shades 
Surround  savannas  green  and  blooming  glades. 
The  fairest  types  of  every  product  known, 
In  rich  abundance  cluster  in  thy  zone. 
Around  thy  waist  a  dazzling  armor  gleams 
With  spreading  lakes  and  rippling  silver  streams. 


58  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE   MUSES. 

Thy  delicate  hands  the  trenchant  blade  can  wield 
In  danger's  hour,  or  till  the  peaceful  field. 
Thy  bosom  swells  with  pride  for  labor  done, 
And  hope  for  greater  things  yet  scarce  begun. 
Beneath  thy  feet  expands  the  gulfs  deep  stream. 
Warmed  by  the  fervid  equatorial  beam. 
Thy  face  is  bright  with  youth's  eternal  glow ; 
Alaska  wreathes  thy  brow  with  pearls  of  snow. 

Our  country  calls :  her  sons  obey  the  voice 
Which  summons  to  her  side  her  men  of  choice  ; 
An  old  tradition  —  which  is  told  to  teach. 
Preserves  in  words  like  these  her  maiden  speech : 
I  am  the  people  —  in  their  name  addressed  ; 
I  am  the  people  —  by  their  will  expressed. 
The  people's  difference,  and  their  will  are  one 
Their  verdict  makes  each  man  a  sovereign ; 
Through  me  he  speaks,  oh  may  his  mandate  be 
An  utterance  worthy  him,  and  worthy  me. 
Then  elevate  the  people  to  that  height 
Which  sweeps  the  scope  of  every  human  right ; 
In  universal  culture  thrives  the  tree 
Which  bears  the  ripened  fruit  of  Liberty. 
'Tis  education  lifts  high  over  all 
Your  fair  ideal  on  its  pedestal ; 
Uphold  it  there,  while  Time  his  cycle  runs, 
By  all  the  love  your  fatiiers  bore  their  sons ; 


THREE    STAGES.  59 


To  Freedom  sacred,  and  the  feared  of  wrong, 
The  boast  of  story,  and  the  loved  of  song. 

Columbia  —  daughter  of  a  virgin  clime. 
Reaps  for  the  world  the  richest  fruits  of  Time. 
Of  humble  strain,  aad  yet  of  royal  mien ; 
A  subject  born  —  in  majesty  a  queen. 
She  serves  and  reigns,  on  deeds  of  glory  bent 
To  lead  in  freedom's  van  a  continent. 
Aloft,  her  ensigns'  noble  breadth  unfurled 
Proclaims  glad  tidings  all  around  the  world. 
The  stately  monarch  of  the  Flowry  Land 
Upon  his  walls  accepts  her  friendly  hand ; 
There  dawns  on  earth  a  new  creation's  morn ; 
The  oldest  empire  greets  the  youngest  born  — 
Whose  mighty  mission,  thus  begun,  will  end. 
When  all  the  nations  as  one  people  blend. 


LITTLE  PEOPLE'S  POEMS. 


WILLIE   CLARK. 


iOTHER,  move    a   little   nearer  —  I'm  so 
lonely  in- the  dark  — 
Tell  me  over,  please,  that  story  of  poor 
little  Willie  Clark. 
How  I  cried  when  I  first  heard  it,  yet  it  drove  away 

the  pain ;  •    . 

Doctor  says  my  fever's  better  —  mother,  make  me 
cry  again. 

There  —  I  hold  thy  hand,  my  darling  —  I  remember 

it  quite  well ; 
If  'twill  smooth  thy  painful   pillow   I  will  Willie's 

story  tell. 
Willie's  name  is  in  the  court-books,  blotted  with  a 

fearful  crime ; 
All  is  true  as  Bible-reading,  though  I  tell  it  thee  in 

rhyme. 

Willie's  mother  was  a  widow,  all  alone  but  for  her 

boy; 
She  had  neither  friend  nor  fortune  —  Willie  was  her 

only  joy. 


LITTLE    people's    POEMS.  6l 

In  an  old  abandoned  shanty,  built  by  workmen  long 

before. 
She  had  lived  by  thread  and  needle  —  no  one  ever 

passed  her  door. 

Willie's  home  was  near  the  railway,  where  his  cries 

and  cradle-strains 
Mingled  with  the  engine's  shrieking  and  the  rumble 

of  the  trains. 
All  went  whirling,  roaring  'round  him,  and  his  mind 

received  a  scare 
That    confined    it   to    the    cradle,  and    his    mother 

watched  it  there. 

Fifteen  springs  had  nursed  and  reared  him,  and  his 

form  grew  tall  and  strong. 
While  in  thought  he  crawled  an  infant  —  groping 

creeping,  slow  along, 
In   his   home   he   shone   a   sunbeam  —  innocent  of 

earth's  alloy. 
And  a  mother's  double-darling  was  her  feeble-minded 

boy. 

Still  she  went  on  singing   to  him  all  her  string  of 

baby  strains, 
'Mid  the  shrieking  of  the  engines  and  the  roaring 

of  the  trains : 


62  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Striving  with  a   great  heart-yearning   in  her  every 

look  and  tone, 
To  arouse  the  sleeping  sense  and  teach  the  mind  to 

stand  alone. 

All  in  vain ;  he  would  not  waken  when  'twas  time  to 

go  to  school. 
Playmates,  when  he  spoiled  their  playing,  called  him 

simpleton  and  fool. 
Willie  never  minded  mocking,  though  it  grieved  his 

mother  sore, 
And  for  all  the  jeers  and  joking  mother  loved  him 

more  and  more; 

Talked  to  him  of  hope  and  fortune,  as    a  mother 

only  can ; 
Pictured  him  a  happy  future  —  when  he  grew  to  be 

a  man; 
Worked  for   him  with  busy  fingers;    at   his   baby 

prattle  smiled ; 
She  had  many   a  mother's  wish  —  her  son  would 

always  be  a  child. 

Willie's   life  was  not  all  barren.  Nature  is   not  so 

unkind. 
For  she  gave  him  heart,  to  fill  the  stinted  measure 

of  his  mind. 


LITTLE    people's    POEMS.  63 


Being's  currents  stayed  and  rippled  'round  the  fount 

of  motherhood : 
Mother   loved   him,  he   loved   her,  and    these    two 

things  he  understood. 

Though  he  never  wandered  from  her  very  far  in  way 

of  harm, 
Wonder  drew  him  to  the  railway,  where  the  danger 

seemed  to  charm : 
Wonder  what  the  rails  were  laid  for ;  wonder  what 

the  travel  meant ; 
Wonder  where  the  railway  started  ;  wonder  where 

the  railway  went ; 

Wonder  why  grown  up  men  play  with  engines  on  a 

bridge's  span ; 
Wonder  if  he'd  have  such  playthings  when  he  grew 

to  be  a  man. 
Once    a   horror  came  while   he  was  looking  on  in 

wondering  vein ; 
'Twas  the  dashing  of  an  engine,  and  the  crashing 

of  a  train. 

Willie,  frightened,  hurried  homeward  —  in  his  terror 

looking  back, 
For  there  was  a  railroad  horror,  and  a  ruin  —  off  the 

track. 


64  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

He  was  caught  and  put  in  prison.     Why  ?     The  boy 

could  never  tell; 
Jailers  and  detectives  only  saw  him  crouching  in  his 

cell. 

Prison  —  at  a  railroad  station,  in  an  old-time  country 

town, 
With  its  lock-up  in  the  basement,  for  the  house  was 

tumbling  down. 
There  he  fed  on  sitk'ning  vapors,  and  his  life  was 

wasted  far 
When  they  brought  him  up  for  trial  and  arraigned 

him  at  the  bar. 

Lawyers  pleaded   in  the   court-room,  turning   over 

their  big  books, 
All  the  while  the  pallid  priso.ner  gazed  around  with 

wond'ring  looks. 
Judge  and  jury  sat  to  try  him  in  the  law's  unerring 

light; 
There  was  death  in  that  disaster,  and  the  court  was 

clothed  with  might. 

Engine  driver  said  that  cordwood  on  the  rails  had 

been  the  snare. 
Chief  detective  said  the  culprit  had  confessed  he 

put  it  there ; 


LITTLE    people's    POEMS.  6$ 

Said  the  boy  was  playing  idiot,  feigning  weakness 

in  the  brain. 
Verdict:     "Guilty"  —  killing,  wounding    men    and 

women  on  the  train. 

Verdict,  guilty !     Mother  heard  it ;  she  had  been  a 

witness  too ; 
Tried  with  simple  truth  to  shield  him,  but  her  story 

would  not  do. 
Agonized,  she   sprang  to  greet  him  with  a  woful, 

pleading  wail, 
Then  she  got  the  court's  permission  to  be  with  him 

in  the  jail. 

Oh  !  the  shadows  of  a  dungeon  —  underground  and 

dark  and  chill. 
How  that  mother  watched  beside  her  darling,  stricken 

deathly  ill. 
Hoping  vainly  for  a  pardon,  she  beguiled  the  dark 

to-day, 
Telling  him  :     *'  To-morrow,  Willie,  maybe  you  can 

go  and  play." 

Pitying  angels  came  to  try  him  in  the  highest  court 

of  all, 
Of  that  Judge  who  keeps  a  record  of  the  smallest 

sparrow's  fall ; 


66  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Weeks   and   months   the   angels   pleaded,  and  the 

mother  pressed  her  right, 
And  the  little  convict  wondered  why  the  time  was 

always  night. 

"  What's   the   matter,  dearest   mother,  is   it   never, 

never  day? 
I  am  tired,  —  so  tired  of  resting;  when  may  I  go 

out  to  play  ? 
Hark !  it  thunders  up  above  us ;  there,  I  hear  the 

rumbling  plain." 
**  Yes,  dear ;  'tis  the  rushing  engine,  and  the  roaring 

of  a  train." 

"  O !  I  thought  it  was  the  anger  of  our  Father  in 
the  skies." 

"  No,  child ;  He  is  Love  and  Mercy,  and  our  every 
good  supplies. 

Wait !  to-morrow,  if  you're  better  —  who  knows  ? 
you  may  go  and  play." 

"  Mother,  here  is  no  to-morrow  —  never  comes  an- 
other day." 

On  his  face  a  glow  of  reason,  like  the  flush  of  dawn 

appears ; 
Mother  marks  the  stunted  mind  grow  to  the  stature 

of  its  years. 


LITTLE    people's    POEMS.  6/ 

"  Tell  me,  Willie,  that's  a  darling,  tell  me  all  —  keep 

nothing  hid ; 
Did  you,  never  meaning  mischief,  do  the  thing  they 

said  you  did  ?  " 

Willie    rises   on   his   pillow :     "  Mother,  some   man 

came  to  me, 
Saying:     *If  you'll  say  you  did  it,  I  have  come  to 

set  you  free. 
Willie,  want  to  see  your  mother?'     *  Oh  !  dear  — 

yes,  indeed  I  do ; 
Take  me  to  her,  and  there's  nothing  that  I  will  not 

do  for  you.' 

*  Say  you  did  it,  that's  a  good  boy ; '  and  he  opened 

wide  that  door ; 

*  Say  you  didn't,  and  you'll  never  see  the  sunshine 

any  more.' 
I  said  *  yes ; '  "  and  Willie's  face  beamed  bright  as 

morn,  and  saintly  fair; 
"  Mother,  he  told  me  to  say  so  —  but  I  never  put  it 

there." 

Innocent !     She  knew  it  always.     Now  his  mind  has 

come  to  light. 
Son  and  mother  cleave  together  through  the  long 

hours  of  the  night. 


6S 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


Morning  comes ;  a  troop  of  angels  find  a  new  and 

shining  joy, 
While  the  mother  in  that  darkness  clasps  the  form 

of  her  dead  boy. 


MARY,   WHO    HAD    THE    LITTLE   LAMB. 


Mary  had  a  little  lamb. 
Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow, 

And  everywhere  that  Mary  went 
The  lamb  was  sure  to  go." 


UT  that  was  when  our  Mary  romped 

In  garden,  field  and  lawn  ; 
A  rosy  child,  with  cherry  lips, 
And  bright-eyed  as  the  dawn ; 
When  she  was  fairer  than  the  spring. 

And  trusting,  loving,  good. 
And  sweeter  than  the  summer  rose  — 
A  bud  of  maidenhood. 


She  was  the  sunlight  of  her  home, 

And  made  it  springtime  there. 
When  all  the  birds  and  flowers  were  gone. 

And  trees  and  fields  were  bare. 
She  had  her  little  playmates  then. 

And  pets  and  toys  —  a  host ; 
But  of  the  things  she  liked  the  best. 

She  loved  her  lamb  the  most. 


70  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

She  grew.     The  years  went  gliding  by 

The  tender  bud  has  blown, 
A  lamb  is  still  at  Mary's  side  — 

A  lamb  she  calls  her  own. 
A  change  had  come  —  another  love 

Had  been  her  proudest  boast, 
And  of  the  things  that  she  liked  best, 

She  loved  her  husband  most. 

With  maiden  beauty's  magic  spell 

She  drew  him  to  her  side, 
And  where  the  lamb  had  been  before. 

He  stood  with  manly  pride. 
But  he  was  gone  ;  and  tearful  eyes 

Had  dewed  the  cold,  gray  stone. 
He  left  her  in  a  sorrowing  world 

But  left  her  not  alone. 

For  Mary  has  a  little  lamb, 

With  soul  as  white  as  snow, 
And  every  place  where  Mary  goes 

The  lamb  is  sure  to  go. 
She  does  not  skip  as  once  she  did  — 

Her  life  is  clouded  now  — 
And  yet  the  old  smile  lingers  there 

Upon  a  sadder  brow  ; 

Enough  of  youth  and  hope  remain 
To  cheer  the  thoughtful  calm  ; 


LITTLE    PEOPLES    POEMS.  /I 

And  still  we  have  the  picture  sweet 

Of  Mary  and  her  lamb. 
A  world  has  bloomed  and  passed  away 

And  left  no  murmuring  ghost ; 
Of  all  the  things  she  ever  loved 

She  loves  her  lamb  the  most. 

The  golden  cord  by  which  'tis  led 

Links  her  to  all  the  past, 
And  an  unbroken  chain  of  love 

May  lead  her  home  at  last. 
Another  change,  the  cord  is  snapped  ^ 

On  which  her  hopes  relied. 
The  purest  lamb  of  all  has  joined 

The  other  lambs  that  died. 

They  lead  her  now  by  memory's  cord 

Where  fadeless  roses  blow. 
And  night  and  morn,  to  where  they  rest, 

Is  Mary  sure  to  go. 
A  simple  emblem  o'er  their  dust 

Doth  Mary's  love  embalm, 
She  kneels  upon  their  tomb  and  clasps 

The  image  of  a  lamb. 

As  when  the  summer  sun  has  sunk 

In  early  evening  rest, 
A  flood  of  bright,  reflected  beams 

Still  gilds  the  rosy  west. 


72  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   MUSES. 

So,  at  the  tomb  of  early  love, 
Is  Mary's  heart  made  whole 

By  memory's  sweet  and  holy  calm  - 
The  twilight  of  the  soul. 


BLOOMING  CHRISTMAS  TREE. 


A  CHILDREN'S  HOLIDAY  GLEE. 


;E'LL  sing  a  song  in  happy  tune, 
About  our  sunny  blossom-time  — 
Not  spanned  by  April,  May  and  June, 
But  all  year  round  in  every  clime. 
Tho'  Christmas  comes  in  winter  drear 

When  earth  and  sky  are  hung  with  gloom, 
It  glows  —  the  blossom  of  the  year  — 
And  keeps  our  little  lives  in  bloom. 

For  fruit  and  flower  hang  together, 

And  all  the  air  is  full  of  glee ; 
And  all  the  year  is  shining  weather 

Around  our  blooming  Christmas  tree. 

Now  old  and  young  are  children  all, 

And  every  heart  and  face  is  gay ; 
We  wake  to  '*  Merry  Christmas  "  call, 

And  Christmas  is  the  children's  day. 
Then  let  us  laugh,  and  romp,  and  sing, 

Rejoicing  in  our  blossom-time. 
Which  makes  the  season  always  spring, 

And  brings  the  flow'rs  in  every  clime. 


74  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

For  all  the  world  is  bright  before  us, 
And  heart  and  face  are  full  of  glee ; 

And  happy  voices  ring  in  chorus 

Around  our  blooming  Christmas  tree. 

Good  Santa  Claus  we  honor  thee  — 

Saint  Nich'las  and  Kris  Kringle,  too  - 
And  be  you  one,  or  be  you  three, 

We  all  agree  in  loving  you  ; 
We  only  know  the  time  is  bright, 

And  that  your  spirit  beams  above  ; 
We  only  know  that  Love  is  Light, 

And  Christmas  light  is  perfect  love. 

For  here  are  loving  father,  mother, 
To  join  us  in  our  ringing  glee  ; 

And  here  are  darling  sister,  brother 
Around  our  blooming  Christmas  tree. 


BABY  BROWN-EYES. 


lA 


|ABY  —  with  brown,  flowing  hair 
Rippling  over  forehead  fair, 
Like  a  brook  from  springs  of  air  ; 


Baby  —  with  brown  lustrous  eyes  — 
Jewels  dropped  by  bounteous  skies  — 
Souvenirs  of  Paradise. 

Innocence,  and  peace,  and  calm 

Of  the  morning  breathing  balm,  / 

When  the  silence  is  a  psalm. 

Beautiful !     Her  wondering  gaze 
At  the  world  in  rapt  amaze. 
Through  the  curtained  golden  haze. 

Shrinking  from  the  touch  of  earth, 
Clutching  the  sweet  rose  of  birth. 
Glowing  with  dumb  dimpled  mirth. 

Looking  down  from  Life's  white  brink, 
Helpless,  thought  and  tongue  to  link. 
How  and  what  does  Baby  think  ? 


J^         •      THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Puzzled  by  a  shadowy  doubt, 
As  her  glances  cast  about, 
Whether  to  look  in  or  out. 

Does  she  hear  close  whisperings  ? 
Does  she  see  the  shapes  and  things 
Of  a  former  time  of  wings? 

Little  prisoned  spirit,  bright  ^- 
Incandescent  holy  light. 
Shining  in  a  realm  of  night. 

Thou  wilt  beautify  thy  clay  — 
Turning  darkness  into  day  — 
Cheering  others  on  their  way. 

Baby  Brown-eyes  —  Life  is  pain ; 
Every  touch  of  earth  a  stain, 
Till  thy  lost  wings  come  again. 


CHERRY   CHEEKS, 


CHILD  with  all  the  budding  good 
That  ripens  rich  in  womanhood ; 
A  little  lump  of  moulded  clay  — 
Vivacious,  beautiful  and  gay, 
Just  lighted  up  with  dawn's  first  streaks. 
And  that  is  little  Cherry  Cheeks. 

Her  pattering  feet  go  everywhere ; 
Her  breath  is  incense  in  the  air ; 
Her  pretty  presence  in  our  room 
Drives  out  the  lurking  ghosts  of  gloom ; 
The  music  in  the  words  she  speaks 
Is  printed  plain  in  Cherry  Cheeks. 

She  plays  with  spring-time's  frolic  hours, 
And  catches  colors  from  the  flowers  — 
The  sweetest,  fairest  rays  of  light  — 
And  shines  with  them  all  day  and  night; 
A  sprite  of  merry  romps  and  freaks 
Is  cheery  little  Cherry  Cheeks. 


LITTLE   GIRL,  LIDA. 


WHO  "HAD  AS  LIEF  BE  IN  HEAVEN.' 


Ijlj^EAR  LIDA,  I  heard  of  thy  illness  with  pain, 
tM  And  now  I'm  so  glad  thou  art  right  well  again. 

^     ^  We  have  to  be  sick  some,  the  wise  people  tell, 

To  know  just  how  goody  it  feels  to  be  well. 
I'm  all  over  happy  to  have  thy  nice  letter. 
So  pretty  and  loving,  —  it  could  not  be  better ;  — 
Surprised  me  too,  really ;  and  'most  made  me  cry  * 
With  joy,  that  our  Lida  did  not  go  and  die. 
Though  Heaven,  they  say,  is  a  very  good  place, 
We  want  Earth  made  brighter,  with  youth,  love  and 

grace. 
Thy  staying  among  us  for  yet  a  good  while 
Will  light  all  our  faces,  with  many  a  smile. 
Don't  think  any  more,  dear,  of  going  above  — 
Not  yet  —  while  so  many  are  down  here  to  love, 
Be  good  and  be  gentle,  be  brave  and  love-giving. 
And  all  will  be  well,  and  thy  life  be  worth  living. 
That's  all  I  need  say  in  this  rhyme,  Lida,  dear; 
I  wish  thee  good  health  and  a  Happy  New  Year. 

January  i,  1885. 


L'     11     M     11     1 1     M     M      H     If      I!     K!     II     H     II     C 


■     ■ ■     ■■     *^ 


TINY  TINA. 


INY  CHRISTINA  — that's  Tina 

Elfin-like  frolicsome  child  ; 
Nobody  lives  who  has  seen  a 
Being  more  charmingly  wild. 
Wild  as  the  wind,  and  as  airy ; 

Bounding  from  touch  of  the  earth ; 
Light  as  the  form  of  a  fairy, 
Full  of  the  genius  of  mirth. 


Born  by  the  brightest  of  waters  ;  — 

Fresher  than  face  of  the  stream ; 
Fairer  than  Fancy's  own  daughters,  — 

Worshipped  in  many  a  dream,  — 
Tina  is  wiser  and  quainter. 

Mentally  standing  alone ; 
Artist  nor  poet  can  paint  her  — 

Sweet  little  girl  of  her  own. 


SONGS  AND   BALLADS. 


BELLE    BRANDON. 


iTfl^^^/  HERE'S  a  tree  by  the  margin  of  a  woodland  ; 
Where  spreading  leafy  boughs  sweep  the 
ground ; 
There's  a  path  leading  thither  o'er  the  prairie, 
To  a  silence  and  solitude  profound. 
There  often  have  I  rambled  in  the  evening 

When  the  breezes  came  rose-laden  o'er  the  lea ; 
There  I  found  the  little  beauty  Belle  Brandon, 
And  we  met  'neath  the  old  arbor  tree. 


Belle  Brandon  was  the  daughter  of  a  woodman 

Whose  brawn  made  the  fofest  copses  ring ; 
Indian  blood  of  a  red  roving  chieftain 

Tinged  her  veins  from  a  far  mountain  spring. 
Barefoot  she  bounded  o'er  the  prairie, 

True,  keeping  her  trysting  time  with  me ; 
For  I  loved  the  little  beauty  Belle  Brandon, 

And  we  both  loved  the  old  arbor  tree. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


8i 


On  the  trunk  of  the  arbor  tree,  remaining, 

Are  two  names  with  mossy  fringe  o'ergrown ; 
Mated  there  in  the  bond  of  young  devotion  — 

Belle  Hrandon  —  the  other  is  my  own. 
Now  I  wend  to  the  woodside  lonely  dreaming 

Of  the  Beautiful  I  never  more  shall  see ; 
For  I've  lost  the  little  beauty  Belle  Brandon, 

And  she  sleeps  'neath  the  old  arbor  tree. 


LADY  BEAUTY. 


ADY  BEAUTY,  'tis  the  merry  Spring  Time, 

"'^       And  the  bees  are  coquetting  with  the  bloom ; 

But  the  roses  and  the  flowers,  now  in  prime, 

Fade  and  fall  in  an  early  autumn  tomb. 

Lady  Beauty,  you  are  blooming  as  the  Spring, 

And  the  loves  are  coquetting  with  your  heart ; 
Oh,  listen  to  the  symphony  they  sing 
'Ere  the  dying  tones  falter  and  depart. 

Lady  Beauty,  now  your  mirrored  face,  bright 

As  the  wild  rose  reflected  from  the  stream,  . 
Tells  of  happy,  happy  days  of  delight 

All  enwrapped  in  the  glamour  of  a  dream. 
Ponder,  darling,  on  the  ebbing  of  the'tide. 

To  the  sea  those  untiring  waters  move ; 
They  murmur  yet  they  sparkle  as  they  glide. 

For  they  haste  to  the  ocean  of  their  love. 

Lady  Beauty,  prize  the  merry  Spring  Time, 

While  the  flowers  along  your  pathway  are  bright ; 
Spring  and  winter  both  come  in  every  clime. 

And  the  morning  dawns  —  harbinger  of  night. 
Lady  Beauty,  I  have  loved  you  true  and  long, 

Can  I  not  your  heart's  dearest  passion  move  ? 
Oh,  listen  to  the  pleading  of  my  song  — 

Come  in  joy  to  the  ocean  of  my  love. 


THINE  AND  MINE, 


DUET. 


He^ 


AY  I  sit  down,  and  dream  with  thee. 
Beneath  the  blooming  greenwood  tree, 

And  hold  that  hand  of  thine  ? 
While  every  fluttering  leaf  above 
Is  whispering  its  tale  of  love 

Oh,  I  would  whisper  mine  ! 
Then  let  me  sit  and  dream  with  thee 
Beneath  the  blooming  greenwood  tree. 

To  shield  from  harm 
My  circling  arm 
Around  thee  I'll  entwine  ; 
A  bird  of  weary  wing 
I'll  rest  and  sing 
A  song  of  thine  and  mine. 
She-- 

Come  sit  thee  down  and  dream  with  me 
Beneath  the  softly  whispering  tree ; 

Thou'rt  weary  wandering  far. 
And  while  the  twinkling  eyes  of  night 
Are  looking  down  in  calm  delight, 
We'll  choose  our  dwelling  star. 


84  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Yes,  sit  thee  down  and  dream  with  me 
Beneath  the  blooming  greenwood  tree. 

To  guide  from  harm 

My  circling  arm 
Around  thee  I'll  entwine  ; 

Two  birds  of  weary  wing 

We'll  rest  and  sing 
A  song  of  thine  and  mine. 

Both  — 

We're  sitting  here  in  rapture  dear, 
And  there  is  none  to  make  us  fear ; 

Our  hands  are  clasped  in  bliss. 
I  shall  be  true  the  wide  world  through, 
And  now  there's  nothing  left  to  do 

But  seal  the  bond  with,  — this ! 
Sweet  dreaming  o'er  the  joy  to  be 
Beneath  the  blooming  greenwood  tree. 

To  ward  off  harm 

My  circling  arm 
Around  thee  I'll  entwine ; 

Our  souls  of  daring  wing 

Will  soar  and  sing 
This  song  of  thine  and  mine. 


\^3m^m$^^\ 


CITHERN  SONG. 


OME  to  our  concert  hall, 

Listen  to  the  ringing 
Chorus  of  minstrels  all 
Sweetening  the  air. 
Come  to  the  leafy  land  . 

Where  the  voices  singing 
Tune  with  the  organ  grand 
Nature  builded  there. 

Chorus  : 

Listen  to  the  cithern 

Twit-ter-ing  — twit-ter-ing, 
Chirping  like  birdling 

All  the  summer  long, 
Ting-a-ling,  ting-a-ling, 

Ting-a-ling,  ting-a-Hng, 
Listen  to  the  cithern's 

All  summer  song. 

List  to  the  music  swell  — 

Mingled  song  and  string  band. 

Meadow  and  flowery  dell 
Warbling  in  the  grove ; 


S6 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


Drink  at  the  fountain  head 
Bubbling  in  the  springland  - 

Wine  of  the  passion  red 
Blushing  flame  of  love. 

Cko. :   Listen  to  the  cithern,  etc. 

Stand  'neath  the  open  sky, 

Listen  to  the  choristers 
Chanting  an  anthem  high, 

Sounding  far  and  wide. 
See  they  are  circling  some 

Beauty  of  the  foresters : 
All  to  the  wedding  come. 

Singing  for  the  bride. 

Cko. :   Listen  to  the  cithern,  etc. 


Bask  in  the  sunny  sweet. 

Golden  haze  of  dreaming 
Where  tiny  tinkling  feet 

Trip  the  elfin  air, 
Float  in  the  tiding  sound 

Toward  Elysium  streaming, 
Wake  at  the  mating  ground  ; 

All  of  life  is  there. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  8/ 

Chorus  : 

Listen  to  the  cithern, 

Twit-ter-ing  —  twit-ter-ing, 
Merrily  ting  —  ding-a-dong, 

Ting-a-Hng  —  ting-a-ling, 
Twit-ter-ing  —  twit-ter-ing, 

Twit-twit  —  twit-ter-ing, 
Hark  to  the  cithern  song. 


AMONG  THE  DAISIES. 


II 


ILARABEL  lived  among  the  daisies, 
ifr       Hid  from  the  gaze  of  men. 

Thrush  and  robin  carolled  her  praises  — 
Sweet  in  the  copse  and  glen. 
Mirror  had  she  —  none  but  the  water 

Clear  as  a  crystal  ray  ; 
Gay  as  a  lark,  —  the  gardener's  daughter 

Chanted  the  livelong  day. 
Suitors  a  plenty  sought  to  woo  her 

Coming  from  far  and  near  ; 
Talking  of  love  and  nonsense  to  her  — 

Clarabel  would  not  hear. 

Clarabel  loved  among  the  daisies  — 

Loved  as  purely  as  they  ; 
Farmer  William  adored  her  graces  — 

Vowed  to  love  her  for  aye  ! 
While  he  wooed  her,  the  flowers  shone  brighter 

Under  her  lightsome  tread. 
When  she  loved  him  her  heart  grew  lighter, 

Fairer  the  skies  o'erhead. 
Speak  !     Oh !  will  you  be  mine  forever  ? 

Breathed  his  heart  with  a  thrill ! 
Sweeter  music  was  warbled  never  — 

Clarabel  smiled —  I  v/ill. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  89 

Clarabel  wed  among  the  daisies 

Which  she  had  loved  so  well, 
Thrush  and  robin  joined  in  her  praises, 

So  did  the  old  church  bell. 
Tidy  and  sweet  her  cot  is  smiling 

Close  by  the  village  green ; 
Family  joys  her  hours  beguiling  — 

Clarabel  reigns  a  queen. 
Daisies  are  plentier  there  than  ever  — 

Grown  in  the  soil  of  Love, 
Thrush  and  robin  had  warbled  never  — 

Sweet  as  the  peaceful  dove. 


BALLAD. 


^  PAINTER,  who  half  was  a  poet, 
\(       Had  visions  of  Art  and  her  might ; 
4^)^j  She  dazzled  his  spirit  with  beauty, 

And  flooded  his  soul  with  her  light. 
Then  grasping  his  palette  and  pencil. 

He  strolled  in  the  meadows  with  Spring ; 
She  sported  her  favorite  vesture, 

And  prayed  him  to  paint  her  or  sing. 

He  sat  'neath  the  arch  of  a  rainbow 

Which  garnished  the  skirts  of  a  shower, 
And  smiled  through  the  tears  of  the  springtime 

At  evening's  contemplative  hour. 
His  pencil  he  dipped  in  wild  roses, 

And  from  them  the  colors  he  drew: 
Fair  lady,  behold  his  ideal!  — 

A  mem'ry-drawn  picture  of  you. 

The  memory — brightest  reflector 

Of  beauty  which  beams  on  its  face  — 
Will  cherish  the  image  forever, 

And  ne'er  lose  a  feature  of  grace. 
Oh,  spurn  not  the  work  as  unworthy  — 

The  tracing  may  fail  to  be  true, 
Yet  in  the  pure  colors  of  nature 

There  must  be  a  likeness  of  you  ! 


SCOTIA, 


ST.  ANDREW'S   DAY   GLEE. 


HE  Nor*  wind  blows, 
The  thistle  grows 
O'er  Bruce  and  Wallace'  dust, 
We'll  sing  a  rhyme 
O'  Scotland's  prime ; 
Her  wild  harp  shall  not  rust. 
Thou  land  o'  song. 
To  thee  belong 
The  brightest  bays  of  yore  ; 
Thy  chiels  revere 
Thy  mem'ry  dear, 
And,  dreaming,  haunt  thy  shore. 

Chorus: 

The  Nor*  wind  blows, 
/  The  thistle  grows 

O'er  Bruce  and  Wallace*  dust. 
We'll  sing  a  rhyme 
O'  Scotland's  prime ; 
Her  wild  harp  shall  not  rust. 


92  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

There  Burn's  sweet  muse 

The  Highland  strews 
Wr  flowers  and  heathery  bloom ; 

The  gowans  gleam 

By  Afton's  stream 
To  deck  thy  minstrel's  tomb. 

Scott's  wondrous  lyre 

Still  thrills  wi'  fire 
The  longing  plowman  swain ; 

The  brightest  rays 

O'  genius  blaze 
In  Allan  Ramsey's  strain. 

Cho, :  The  Nor'  wind  blows,  etc. 

We  sing  wi'  pride 

Our  mither  —  bride, 
Our  sister  —  a'  that's  dear; 

And  bright  beams  shine 

For  auld  lang  syne 
In  mem'ry's  gilded  tear. 

Wi*  ivy  di-owned, 

The  bowl  goes  round 
For  Caledonia's  boast. 

High  Fame's  award  — 

The  peasant  bard  — 
The  Ayrshire  plowman  toast ! 

Cho. :  The  Nor'  wind  blows,  etc. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  93 

The  lasses  fair 

Shall  claim  our  prayer, 
And  each  fond  feeling  move. 

Where  breathes  the  Scot 

Whose  soul  does  not 
Our  "  Highland  Mary  "  love  ? 

Bright  woven  wreaths 

Of  ivy  leaves 
Have  cheered  our  festive  seene, 

And  as  we  gang 

Thro'  life  alang 
We'll  wear  them  ever  green. 

Cho. :   The  Nor'  wind  blows,  etc. 


GUARD  OF   LAND   AND   SEA, 


|g  ANNER  proudly  floating 
Over  land  and  sea, 
Full  of  starry  splendor  — 
Emblem  of  the  free  ! 
Blood  upon  its  border. 

White  unspotted  too  ! 
Still  as  true  as  heaven 
Gleams  the  radiant  Blue ! 

Chorus: 

Banner  proudly  floating 

Over  land  and  sea. 
Full  of  starry  splendor  — 

Emblem  of  the  free. 

Lo  !  the  olden  army  — 

Freedom's  matchless  band  — 
'Mid  the  roar  of  battle 

*Round  that  banner  stand. 
O'er  them  soars  the  eagle. 

Guard  of  land  and  sea. 
Bathed  in  golden  sunlight. 

Brooding  victory. 

Cho. :  Banner  proudly  floating,  etc. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  95 

O  ye  sons  and  daughters 

Of  the  brave  who  fell, 
Prize  the  badge  of  glory, 

Guard  their  banner  well. 
'•Neath  its  folds  a  nation 

Spreads  from  East  to  West, 
Circled  by  the  oceans  — 

Every  climate  blest ! 

Cho.  :  Banner  proudly  floating,  etc. 

Banner  of  our  country, 

Proud  in  peace  or  war. 
Let  them  not  be  blotted. 

Not  a  single  star ! 
Ever  and  forever 

Peaceful  may  they  be, 
Bound  in  happy  union  — 

All,  from  sea  to  sea. 

Cho. :  Banner  proudly  floating,  etc 


m 

BOND  AND  SHIELD. 


HEN  Freedom  triumphant  came  out  of  the 
strife 
Which  justice  and  valor  had  won ; 
She  cast  off  her  armor  in  fulness  of  life, 
And  held  her  bright  shield  to  the  sun. 

Upon  it  was  pictured  her  future  domain  — 
Great  cities  her  empire  would  found  ; 

And  mountain,  and  valley,  and  forest,  and  plain, 
And  ocean  encircled  it  round. 

The  goddess  disbanded  her  warrior  host ; 

Her  conqueritig  mission  was  done ; 
Divided  —  the  cause  of  mankind  had  been  lost  — 

United  —  the  struggle  was  won. 

She  gave  them  her  shield,  with  the  broad  sunny  land, 

The  half  of  the  earth  to  control ; 
She  gave  them  her  armor,  and  badge  of  command, 

And  took  their  sworn  bond  for  the  whole. 

The  people  who  battled,  were  strong  in  the  might. 
Which  won  them  a  realm  and  a  name  ; 

A  nation  united,  was  strong  in  the  right. 
Which  yielded  it  glory  and  fame. 


F^iSf^K^SfyS 

S^SW^^H!! 

B^l 

^^^ 

'S^^iJNl^ 

ii 

ARABEL   KNITTING. 


EwAIR  Arabel  sitting 

f^^r        By  bright  chimney  side, 
Knits  fast  at  her  knitting, 
She'll  soon  be  a  bride. 
But  man's  a  deceiver, 

And  woman  is  caught, 
And  lovers  oft  leave  her  — 
A  word  may  be  naught. 
The  world,  it  rolls  over. 

The  world,  it  runs  wide. 
But  Arabel's  lover 

Will  claim  her  as  bride. 

Her  lover  had  told  her 

When  leaving  her  there. 
That  spring  would  behold  her 

A  bride,  blooming  fair ; 
And  she  has  been  sitting 

From  others  apart. 
With  net-work  a-knitting 

Around  her  true  heart. 
The  world,  it  rolled  over, 

The  world,  it  ran  wide, 
But  brought  not  her  lover 

To  Arabel's  side. 


98  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

All  lonely  and  grieving,    . 

The  past  she  recalls, 
While  spiders  are  weaving 
.  Their  webs  on  the  walls. 
All  passionless  sitting 

Like  death  in  the  house ; 
The  shadows  are  knitting 

Their  webs  o'er  her  brows. 
The  world,  it  rolls  over. 

The  world,  it  runs  wide ; 
And  never  a  lover 

Makes  Arabel  bride. 

O  !  man's  a  deceiver. 

And  woman  is  caught. 
And  gold's  the  world's  lever. 

But  love  can't  be  bought. 
O !  wornan  befitting 

Thy  holier  part, 
Sit  fast  by  thy  knitting. 

The  web  of  the  heart. 
The  world,  it  rolls  over. 

The  world,  it  runs  wide ; 
And  falsehood's  the  lover. 

And  truth  is  the  bride. 


m,^-^^^ 


SUSIE   IN   THE   LANE. 


ETWEEN  two  rows  of  hawthorn 

That  made  an  arch  above. 
There  ran  a  wagon  roadway 
That  hid  an  early  love. 
And  gleams  a  flash  of  mem'ry 

Though  gloomy  years  of  pain, 
That  lightens  up  the  hedge-rows, 
And  Susie  in  the  lane. 


It  never  chanced  by  moonlight 

I  met  the  rustic  fair ; 
'Twas  in  the  rosy  morning, 

When  music  filled  the  air, 
And  dew  was  on  the  hedges 

Where  Robin  Redbreast  sung. 
And  all  was  merry  morning. 

And  everything  was  young. 

Ah !  well  do  I  remember 

How  chance  had  made  a  rule 

To  walk  between  the  hedge-rows 
When  Susie  went  to  school ! 


100  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

To  meet  her  was  a  glory, 
And  oh!  a  nameless  pain  ! 

My  boyish  heart  was  fearful 
Of  Susie  in  the  lane. 

'Twas  just  to  say  "good  morning  ;  " 

'Twas  just  to  see  blue  eyes 
Peer  out  from  deep  sun-bonnet, 

And  twinkle  arch  surprise. 
They  seemed  so  artless  playing 

Their  game  of  hide  and  seek ; 
I  never  failed  to  see  them, 

They  never  failed  to  speak. 

She  lived  just  o'er,  the  hill-top. 

Where  waved  the  flags  of  corn : 
Afar  I  saw  her  coming, 

And  then  I  knew  'twas  morn. 
I  always  chanced  to  meet  her. 

In  sun,  or  wind,  or  rain; 
She  made  the  darkest  weather 

All  sunshine  in  the  lane. 

And  I  was  but  a  plow-boy, 

And  she  a  little  miss, 
I  never  ventured  near  her 

Enough  to  steal  a  kiss. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS. 


lOI 


I  left  the  plow  team  standing 
Across  the  furrowed  land, 

To  meet  her  'neath  the  hawthorn, 
Yet  never  touched  her  hand. 

And  Time  has  plowed  some  furrows 

Across  the  plow-boy's  brow. 
The  wearied  team  is  standing 

Anear  the  hedge-rows  now. 
'Tis  growing  dusky  evening, 

I  feel  the  fluttering  pain 
Which  stirred  my  heart  this  morning 

With  Susie  in  the  lane. 


TREE  AND  VINE, 


I  EE  the  tree  all  lonely  standing, 
Sways  its  sturdy  form  in  air ; 
Lofty,  lordly,  and  commanding  — 
Yet  of  fruitful  honors  bare. 
With  the  tempest  bravely  battling ;  — 

Still,  in  calm  it  doth  repine  ! 
And  with  voice  of  leafy  prattling, 
Woos  the  tender  clasping  vine. 

See  the  vine  so  deftly  tending 

Towards  the  strong  arm  of  the  tree. 
Filled  with  sweet  desire  of  blending 

Strength  and  grace  in  harmony. 
Joined :  —  the  world  may  war  around  them, 

And  the  clouds  may  lower  and  roar; 
Bonds  that  turn  the  storms  have  bound  them. 

Crowned  them  one  forevermore. 

Twain  in  one  they  stand  together, 

One  in  form,  and  two  in  bloom, 
Giving  to  the  sun-bright  weather 

Sparkling  beauty,  sweet  perfume  ; 


SONGS   AND    BALLADS.  IO3 

Like  a  mated  man  and  woman 

In  their  youngest  love  caress, 
Tree  and  vine  are  more  than  human 

In  their  growing  tenderness. 

See  the  tree  and  vine  forever 

Wedded  —  blossom,  branch  and  root; 
Who  could  dare  the  tendrils  sever  ? 

Who  would  blast  their  promised  fruit  ? 
More  than  sister  is  to  brother, 

More  than  mother  is  to  son  — 
They  are  all  to  one  another, 

Always  twain,  and  ever  one. 

Picture  wedded  pair  so  tender. 

Clinging  like  the  tree  and  vine ; 
Living  for  autumnal  splendor, 

Golden  fruit  and  rosy  wine  — 
Wine  that  flows  with  gentle  pressing, 

When  the  leaves  are  falling  sear ; 
Crowning  with  the  harvest  blessing 

All  the  sunshine  of  the  year. 


OUR   ROOF-TREE, 


UR  roof-tree  protects  with  its  arm 
OWW  The  life  and  the  love  'round  it  clinging; 
And  far  from  the  roar  of  alarm 
Our  birds  'mid  the  branches  are  singing; 
They  drop  from  the  sky's  airy  blue 
That  arches  so  tenderly  o'er  us ; 
They  build  and  sing  all  the  day  through, 
And  join  in  our  happy  home-chorus. 

We  bar  the  world  out  in  the  night, 
To  howl  its  wild  wail  of  repining ; 

We  lock  in  a  world  full  of  light. 
For  Love  is  the  sun  ever  shining. 

We  shut  out  a  world  full  of  gloom, 

And  shut  in  a  world  full  of  beauty ; 
Perfumed  with  the  roses  that  bloom 

So  bright  in  the  pathway  of  duty. 
Content  is  our  treasure  untold. 

Which  grows  with  the  taking  and  giving  ; 
Its  metal  is  dearer  than  gold. 

And  pays  the  rich  bounty  of  living. 

We  bar  the  world  out  in  the  night, 
To  howl  its  wild  wail  of  repining ; 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  IO5 

We  lock  in  a  world  full  of  light, 
For  Love  is  the  sun  ever  shining. 

O  pilgrim !  a  shrine  is  at  hand ; 

Behold,  where  our  garden  is  gleaming, 
All  green  in  the  desert  of  sand; 

Come  drink  of  the  clear  fountain  streaming. 
Abide  with  us  all  the  day  long. 

To  rest  from  the  turmoil  of  roaming ; 
And  join  in  our  festival  song 

When  fire-light's  the  bride  of  the  gloaming. 

We  bar  the  world  out  in  the  night. 
To  howl  its  wild  wail  of  repining ; 

We  lock  in  a  world  full  of  light, 
For  Love  is  the  sun  ever  shining. 

Renown  may  be  bartered  and  sold. 

And  Fame  is  a  blood-chilling  story. 
When  Honor  stands  shivering  with  cold. 

While  shining  in  garments  of  glory. 
The  heart  has  a  realm  of  its  own. 

And  Love  is  its  holy  defender ; 
With  Virtue  a  queen  on  the  throne, 

What  monarch  can  vie  with  her  splendor  ? 

We  bar  the  world  out  in  the  night. 
To  howl  its  wild  wail  of  repining ; 

We  lock  in  a  world  full  of  light. 
For  Love  is  the  sun  ever  shining. 


MUSTER    DAY. 


^AKE  !     Night's  lingering  star  is  fading 
In  the  blue,  away; 


'£MLM  Wake,  boys!     Rouse    to   work   and 
pleasure  — 
This  is  muster  day. 
Colonel  Baldwin  passed  the  window, 

Plumed,  and  mounted  fleet  — 
Sword  and  sash  and  gilded  trappings. 
Ringing  down  the  street. 

Every  house  must  wave  its  colors 

For  our  martial  show ; 
We  must  feel  how  strong  the  arm  is. 

Trained  to  strike  a  blow. 
Playing  with  the  bare,  bright  weapon 

Nerves  the  hand  for  need. 
Peace  wears  scars  of  bloody  battle, 

And  again  may  bleed. 

Sunrise !     Wha.t  a  tide  of  people 

Streaming  up  and  down  ! 
Old  and  young  in  rippling  currents, 

Country  flows  to  town  ! 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  10/ 

All  the  Streets  and  roads  are  swarming, 

All  the  land  is  gay, 
Rallying  round  a  grand  old  banner. 

Keeping  muster  day. 

Men  and  boys  are  playing  soldier, 

Up  in  arms  at  once  ; 
Some  with  harmless,  rusty  fire-locks ; 

Some  with  cornstalk  guns. 
Underneath  a  brand  new  banner. 

As  a  rainbow  fair, 
Fife  and  drum,  and  columns  tramping. 

Move  to  Court-house  Square. 

Giddy  girls  and  jolly  matrons 

Mingle  in  our  joys  ; 
How  their  eyes,  with  pleasure  brimming. 

Glory  in  their  boys. 
Every  face,  each  throbbing  bosom, 

Glows  with  tension  strung, 
Youth  is  ripe  and  age  is  youthful  — 

All  are  fair  and  young. 

See  our  "  old  man  "  in  his  wagon, 

Bending  'neath  his  years. 
Honored  by  the  hearty  ''huzza  !  '* 

Three  right  ringing  cheers. 


I08  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Relic  of  the  Revolution, 

Wrestling  with  his  quid, 
Blinking,  nodding  fond  approval :  — 
"  Just  the  way  we  did.'*  ' 

■  Wagons  stud  the  yards  and  sideways  ; 

Horses,  dogs,  and  cattle 
Seem  to  feel  the  merry-making 

Of  the  mimic  battle. 
Servants  for  the  day  are  masters, 

Even  Afric's  Tan 
Shines  forgetful  of  its  colors* 

Branding  social  ban. 

Cider-press  and  still  of  Bourbon 

Flow  in  plenteous  store, 
All  drink  quite  enough  for  pleasure  — 

Some  a  trifle  more. 
Oratory's  plumed  spread-eagle 

Makes  its  rocket  flight ; 
Thus  the  day ;  then  all  the  muster 

Dance  the  livelong  night. 

Wake,  boys  !     There's  a  glooming  shadow 

Hides  the  morning  star. 
Spreads  and  blacks  the  whole  horizon  — 

This  is  threatening  war. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  IO9 

Men,  awake !     We're  boys  no  longer, 

Toys  we  cast  away ; 
Comes  a  contest  worthy  manhood  — 

This  is  muster  day. 

Every  man  must  prove  his  mettle 

When  his  country  calls ; 
Past  the  time  for  playing  soldier 

When  the  old  flag  falls. 
Earnest  faces  flash  for  action, 

Troops  march  up  and  down  ; 
Pouring  from  the  lanes  and  highways. 

Soldiers  fill  the  town  ! 

Clanging  swords  and  tramping  columns 

Sound  a  war-like  din. 
While  the  struggle  of  the  ranks  is, 

Who  can  first  get  in. 
Trembling  maids  and  anxious  matrons 

At  the  front  again, 
Kiss  adieus  and  sob  their  good-byes  : 

Baldwin  leads  his  men! 

Underneath  the  bright  new  banner, 

As  the  rainbow  fair, 
Fife  and  drum,  and  columns  tramping 

March  from  Court-house  Square. 


no  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Husbands,  fathers,  sons  and  brothers 

Marshalled  to  a  man ! 
And,  as  in  the  days  of  muster. 

There  is  Afric's  Tan. 

Comes  the  muffled  battle's  thunder 

Rolling  up  from  far. 
While  the  fitful  lightning  flashes 

Show  where  storms  the  war. 
Fields  are  plowed  with  shares  of  earthquakes. 

Gorged  with  hasty  graves, 
And  a  pall  falls  over  hearthstones  — 

But  the  old  flag  waves. 

Wake  !     The  ruddy  day  is  dawning 

Cloudless  now  as  when 
Rosy  flush  aroused  to  muster 

Baldwin  and  his  men. 
Underneath  a  storm-rent  banner, 

Borne  through  many  a  fray, 
Tramp  the  thinned  ranks  home  to  glory. 

This  is  muster  day. 

Maids  and  matrons  from  their  windows 

Bend  and  count  the  cost ; 
Peace  is  won,  but  eyes  are  straining. 

Looking  for  their  lost. 


SONGS    AND    BALLADS.  Ill 

Still  the  skyey,  radiant  standard, 

As  a  rainbow  fair, 
Shines  above  the  war-scarred  veterans 

Home,  in  Court-house  Square. 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


OUR   MARY. 


EM  of  purest  cosmic  mould  — 
Crystal  birth ; 
Too  precious  to  be  bought  or  sold 
Priceless  worth. 


Lily  sprung  from  lucent  soil, 

Fair  as  light ; 
Of  earth,  that  earth  can  never  spoil 

Spotless  white. 

Mary,  maid  of  regal  mien  — 

Royal  line ; 
A  lady,  born  to  be  a  queen  — 

Right  divine. 


Daughter,  dutiful  and  dear  — 

Blooming  May; 
In  Home's  unclouded  hemisphere. 

Star  of  Day. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  II3 


Woman  —  self-contained,  complete, 

Grandly  staid 
Of  sentient  being's  sweetest  sweet, 

Nature-made. 

Young  Aurora  of  the  West  — 

All  a-flame ; 
Our  Mary,  beautiful  and  blest  — 

Saintly  name. 

Genius  crowned  with  glory's  bright 

Halo  beam  ; 
Illuming  earth  with  heavenly  light  — 

Fulfilled  dream. 


THE  OLD  POST  ROAD. 


.,T  HOME  !     I'm  off  the  railway ! 
Returned  from  distant  lands  ; 
4^4^  Not  far  across  the  woods  and  fields 
An  old-time  farm  house  stands. 
Around  the  hills  and  meadows 
There  winds  a  shady  way  — 
My  bare  feet  pattered  down  the  path 
In  memory's  yesterday. 

I'll  walk  in  cool  of  morning, 

With  staff  and  travelling  pack, 
And  give  them  all  a  glad  surprise 

To  see  the  wanderer  back. 
But  things  look  strangely  distant  — 

Review  them  as  I  may ; 
The  landscape's  playing  hide-and-seek. 

Or  I  have  lost  my  way. 


No  trees  arch  o'er  the  by-path,  — 
Some  blackened  stumps  remain  ; 

A  pulseless  hush  is  on  the  earth  — 
Like  holding  breath,  in  pain. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  II5 


Hello  !  — no  echo  answers, 

In  pert  reply  to  noise ;  — 
I'm  not  a  tramp.     I've  just  come  home 

To  see  the  girls  and  boys. 

No  cattle  on  the  hillsides, 

No  warbling  in  the  glen ; 
No  living  thing  appears  to  meet. 

And  know  me  home  again. 
The  old  Post  Road  —  like  vagrant  — 

Creeps  slow  up-hill  and  down. 
And  leads  no  throng  of  life,  between 

The  country  and  the  town. 

The  blinking  wayside  tavern 

Is  crumbling,  stone  by  stone : 
The  wheezy  landlord  smokes,  and  yawns, 

And  nods,  and  dreams,  alone. 
He  rouses  when  1  greet  him. 

And  makes  a  distant  nod  ; 
So,  —  I'm  a  stranger  pilgrim  here  — 

An  alien  to  the  sod. 

What  means  this  dumb  appealing  — 

This  blank  and  stony  glare  ? 
Oh  for  a  thunder-bolt  to  burst 

The  muteness  of  the  air ! 


Il6  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Now  comes  one  sound  familiar  — 

The  falling  waters'  sigh  ; 
I  stand  upon  the  mill  stream's  brink ; 

Its  depths  are  draining  dry. 

O  memory !  necromancer, 

I  feel  thy  loving  spell. 
And  I  am  walking  in  a  dream ! 

What  hinders  me  to  tell 
How  childhood  slept  one  evening, 

And  magic  changes  came  — 
Transforming  scenes,  concealing  things. 

Yet  leaving  sight  the  same  ? 

If  this  be  Chester  Valley  — 

Its  every  nook  I  know  ! 
A  haunting  something  whispers  me  ;  — 

That's  forty  years  ago. 
So  long  ?     And  yet  I  wonder 

Where  'bide  the  solemn  men 
Whose  plowshares  conquered  and  defend 

The  colony  of  Penn. 

Their  hills'  smooth,  rounded  shoulders 

Were  clad  in  waving  corn ; 
Adown  the  vale  the  whetting  scythe 

Rang  in  the  harvest  morn. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  II/ 


I  smell  the  mowing  season  — 

Aroma  of  sweet  hay  ; 
Tall  timothy  and  clover  blooms  — 

The'  farmers'  prized  bouquet. 

I  see  them,  and  I  know  them, 

With  all  their  quiet,  quaint  ways,  — 
The  pauses,  and  the  silences 

That  punctuate  their  days. 
They  meet  the  storm's  encounters 

With  introspective  calm ; 
Their  faith  and  savory  deeds  distil 

For  every  wound  a  balm. 

And  here's  the  old  home  humble  — 

Our  family  abode ; 
Its  eyes  are  dim  with  looking  long 

Upon  the  dusty  road. 
The  porch  that  sheltered  nestlings 

Is  broken,  worn,  and  thin  ; 
The  shrubs  and  twining  vines  are  gone. 

And  solitude's  within. 

Where,  where  are  all  the  children 
Who  watched  the  travel  pass. 

And  pressed  a  round  and  rosy  face 
On  every  pane  of  glass  ? 


Il8  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Gone  !  scattered  o'er  the  wide  world 
By  tempests  roughly  blown  ; 

The  seed,  so  richly  garnered  here, 
'Mong  rocks  and  thorns  is  sown. 

And  comes  again  that  whisper  — 

Like  wind-wail  soft  and  low  ; 
The  dwellers  in  this  vale  have  moved 

Since  forty  years  ago  ! 
But  I  am  here  —  a  child  still ;  — 

And  looking  for  lost  toys : 
Don't  hide  from  me  ;  I've  just  come  home 

To  see  the  girls  and  boys. 

I  know  the  dear  old  faces. 

And  while  I  gaze  they  seem 
So  friendly  near  —  so  faintly  far  — 

Dim  wakings  in  a  dream. 
'Tis  memory's  fond  enchantment ; 

The  whisper  's  true  I  know ; 
Yet  I  am  anchored  in  that  deep 

Of  forty  years  ago. 

At  young  affection's  altar. 

Forever  decked  in  green, 
I  summon  from  the  depth  of  years 

Some  forms  that  filled  the  scene ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I  I9 


When  I, —  a  child  with  children  — 

Believed  the  world  began 
Just  where  the  "big  road  "  started  out, 

And  ended  where  it  ran. 

John  Connor  was  the  driver 

Of  dashing  four-in-hand  — 
A  very  lord  —  the  greatest  man 

That  lived  in  all  the  land. 
He  brought  the  Village  Record^ 

And  strewed  the  news  along 
The  wayside,  chatting,  filling  in 

The  pauses  of  his  song. 

Afar  his  horn  resounded  — 

With  echo-winding  toot. 
And  summoned  old  and  young  to  see 

The  wonders  in  the  boot. 
He  sat  so  proud  and  grandly 

On  throne  of  blue  and  gold  ;  — 
It  can't  be  told  how  big  he  looked 

To  little  eight-year-old 

In  watching  for  the  stage-coach 
With  craving  child-like  trust. 

To  round  the  cove  of  yonder  hill 
In  billowy  rolling  dust. 


120  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

*Tis  past  its  time  of  morning  : 
The  trumpet  voice  is  dumb  ; 

At  noon-day  sounds  the  dinner  horn, 
And  still  it  does  not  come. 

I  hear  the  ringing  concert 

That  charmed  these  hills  and  dells, 

When  teamsters  came  with  caravans  — 
.  Came  down  with  tingling  bells. 

The  horses  pranced  to  music, 
Nor  seemed  to  feel  their  load  ; 

They  hauled  fine  things  from  Wonderland 
Along  the  old  Post  Road. 

White-hooded  market  wagons, 

Like  nuns  in  solemn  line, 
Marched  on,  and  on,  forever  on 

As  seeking  some  far  shrine. 
Their  faces  —  drooping  downward 

Concealed  their  inward  cheer 
With  dairy,  farm,  and  garden  fruits, 

They  circled  round  the  year. 

Came  droves  of  broad-horned  cattle  — 

Their  lowing  still  I  hear  ; 
They  breathed  the  sweet  of  clover-fields 

And  begged  their  evening  cheer ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  121 


And  plunging  deep  in  pasture, 
They  chased  their  hunger  down  ; 

At  morning's  dawn  in  shadowy  line 
They  moved  to  market  town. 

The  tramp  !     I  knew  his  plodding, 

And  turning  in  the  lane ; 
He  looked  so  tired  and  hungry-like  - 

And  crooked  as  his  cane. 
Low  bending  'neath  his  bundle  — 

His  pleading  piteous  "  yarn  " 
Insured  a  slice  of  meat  and  bread. 

And  lodging  in  the  barn. 

I  stand  here  like  a  wind-harp 

Played  on  by  breezy  June  ; 
And  voices  of  the  shadow-land 

Have  pitched  a  tender  tune. 
And  memory  —  weird  minstrel 

Sweeps  o'er  the  sobbing  strings  : 
The  strong  man  is  in  bondage  held. 

While  happy  childhood  sings. 

The  ringing  chimes  of  childworld 
Are  echo's  faint  refrain  — 

The  glimmer  of  the  golden  days 
That  never  come  again. 


122         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

The  pulsing  warmth  of  childheart 

Is  cooled  with  frosty  rime ; 
The  breath  of  early  roses  comes 

With  pungent  hints  of  thyme. 

There's  shadow  in  the  sunshine  — 

A  touching  tinge  of  gloom ; 
The  valley  sits  in  beauty  still 

But  bears  no  human  bloom ; 
No  children  romping  gleeful ; 

No  lambs  within  the  fold ; 
The  flocks  and  herds  are  lost,  or  strayed 

Away  from  shepherds  old. 

The  place,  there's  no  mistaking,  — 

For  there's  the  Barren  Ridge, 
And  this  is  babbling  Riddley  Creek  — 

And  arching  it  the  bridge. 
Oh  !  for  one  word  of  welcome 

To  lay  that  goblin  wail, 
There  sure  must  be  some  relic  left 

Of  this  once  teeming  vale. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  old  mill  humming. 
The  same  dull,  drowsy  tune  — 

A  song  of  life,  yet  not  in  tune 
With  bright  and  breezy  June. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


123 


Of  all  the  folks  familiar, 

Is  there  no  living  one  ? 
The  aged  miller  must  be  left ; 

No,  'tis  his  aged  son ! 

rU  speak  to  him  :    "  Friend,  tell  me 
What  keeps  the  stage  ?  "     He  said  : 

"  The  stage  has  not  been  running  since 
The  travel  has  been  dead. 

The  Post  Road's  just  a  wrinkle  — 
No  passengers,  nor  mail ; 

'Twas  ruined  by  yon  iron  horse 
That  steams  across  the  vale." 

The  stage  is  stopped  !     No  wonder 

All  things  are  old  and  slow ; 
Since  nothing  wheels  along  the  days 

That  drowsing  come  and  go. 
The  mill  alone  is  moving 

To  make  a  funeral  meal, 
With  scarcely  water-power  enough 

To  turn  the  droning  wheel. 


"  John  Connor —  do  you  know  him  ? 

He  used  to  drive  the  stage  ?  " 
"  Aye  —  he  was  made  Assemblyman 

When  railroads  'came  the  rage. 


124  THE    MASQUE    QF   THE    MUSES. 

He's  dead  :   his  son  did  badly  — 
And  went  to  rack  by  rail ; 

He  drives  an  engine  on  yon  bridge 
And  frightens  all  the  vale.  " 

I'm  looking  for  some  young  folks, 

And  playmates  whom  I  know; 
I  ran  away,  but  still  'tis  not 

So  very  long  ago. 
"  Lo  !  many  years  the  youngsters 

Have  left  these  parts  by  rail,  — 
Last  seen  upon  yon  railroad  bridge, 

A  rushing  o'er  the  vale." 

No  school  is  kept  at  Edgmont  — 

Behind  yon  hillock  hid  ? 
"  No  school  is  kept —  the  teacher  quit 

Before  the  children  did  ; 
And  then  the  few  odd  leavings 

Went  off  to  school  by  rail  — 
Went  off  in  smoke  o'er  yonder  bridge 

That  sweeps  across  the  vale.  " 

Farewell,  sweet  dream  of  Eden ! 

Dispelled  by  hunger-pain ; 
Since  all  the  boys  and  girls  are  gone, 

I  take  the  evening  train. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


125 


Adieu  !  these  haunts  of  childhood, 
They're  e'en  an  old  man's  tale ; 

A  last  look  from  the  railway  bridge. 
That  leaps  across  the  vale. 


• 

^^^ 

' 

DINNER   IN   THE    STREET. 


^^ALF  the  city  sleeps  ; 

The  other  half  is  waking :  — 

The  one  in  downy  deeps, 
The  other — shivering,  shaking. 
A  winter  day  is  breaking. 
And  Frosty  Morning  creeps 
Slow  down  the  steeple-steeps. 
Then,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 
Sly,  foraging  for  Day, 
Leaps  into  lanes  and  alleys  — 
The  town's  ravines  and  valleys  — 
Where,  cramped,  and  sore,  and  aching, 

The  poor  are  piled  in  heaps. 
So,  half  and  half,  divided 

By  penury  and  pelf. 
The  world  is  grown  blind-sided. 
And  does  not  know  itself. 

Where  darkness  latest  lingers 

In  drowsy  Twilight's  lap. 
Grim  Labor's  bony  fingers. 

With  savage  rap-tap-tap  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  12/ 


First  break  the  morning  nap ; 

And  out  from  unknown  deeps, 
In  night-fall  snow  and  sleet, 
The  early  plodding  feet 

Their  devious  ways  are  taking  — 

Brave  foot-prints  new  paths  making, 

While  half  the  city  sleeps. 

Among  the  thousand  others, 
Hard-working  men  and  brothers. 

There's  one  with  burdened  back 
Stops  timidly  before 
A  silver-plated  door,  / 

And  drops  his  tiresome  pack  — 

A  saw  and  wooden  rack  — 
And  rigs  with  supple  skill 
His  muscle  to  a  mill 

Beside  a  cordwood  stack ; 
And  straight  applies  the  power, 
This  early  work-day  hour. 

Along  the  Avenue 

The  morning  nap  is  broken. 

Without  a  sign  or  token 
Of  daylight  creeping  through 

The  heavy-curtained  rooms 

Of  Fashion  bred  in  tombs. 


128  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Soon  stony  fronts  are  giving 
Some  hints  and  wi«nks  of  living 

Behind  the  marble  mask ; 
And  at  the  windows,  drowsy, 
Are  sleepy-heads,  and  frowsy, 

Who  watch  the  sawyer's  task. 
With  vim  and  speed  increasing. 
The  sawmill  goes  unceasing, 

The  wolf  at  bay  to  keep. 
Within  doors  there  is  "jawing" 
About  the  sin  of  sawing 

When  people  want  to  sleep. 
The  sin?     His  sin  is  hunger! 
O  pious  maxim-monger. 

The  moral  thou  canst  draw. 

For  Hunger's  its  own  law. 
A  sawyer  must  have  meat 
To  grease  his  saw,  and  eat 
His  dinner  in  the  street. 

The  Avenue  quick  rouses 
With  unaccustomed  cheer, 

And,  flitting  in  the  houses, 
Shy,  shadowy  forms  appear  — 
Like  ghosts  of  other  sphere. 

And  little  girls  and  boys 

Look  out  on  snow  and  sleet. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 29 


And  think  the  sawyer's  noise 
Is  musically  sweet ! 

But  never  once  they  think 
He  starves  by  Labor's  laws, 

On  little  meat  and  drink ; 

While,  bowed,  he  seems  to  eat, 
With  ever-munching  jaws. 
His  dinner  in  the  street. 

The  town  is  wide  awake 
And  up,  and  business  moves 
In  old  accustomed  grooves  — 

All  playing  for  Life's  stake ; 
And  merchant,  doctor,  lawyer. 
Sweep  heedless  round  the  sawyer. 

And  feel  no  common  cause ; 
They  would  be  long  agreeing 

That  he's  a  Human  Being  — 

The  mill  that  saws  and  saws. 
The  sawyer's  world's  a  tract  of 

Perpetual  snow  and  sleet ; 
And  few  regard  the  fact  of 

Starvation  in  the  street. 

All  forenoon,  girls  and  boys, 
With  clattering  hands  and  feet. 

Applaud  the  sawyer's  noise 
As  musically  sweet. 


130  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  children  are  the  stairs 

By  which  we,  growing,  rise 
By  slow  steps  —  unawares  — 

To  grasp  Life's  highest  prize ;  — 
The  crown  of  human  good  — 
The  bond  of  brotherhood. 
For  children  come  together 

When  hearts  each  other  lure, 
Without  a  question  whether 

Their  blood  is  rich  or  poor. 

It  shines  —  a  sunbright  day  — 
And  windows  full  of  faces 
Beam  down  their  pretty  graces 

Upon  the  poor  man's  way ; 

Yet  none  appear  to  know  him. 
Or  courteous  bearing  show  him, 

Of  all  who  pass  to-day. 

The  sawyer  halts  and  listens. 
And  now  his  glad  face  glistens ; 

He  knows  who  come  his  way  — 

Two  children,  chatting,  singing, 
A  little  girl  and  boy, 

Tin  kettle  'tween  them  swinging. 
And  shining  gleams  of  joy  ; 

They  hear  the  saw  a-sawing. 

With  creaking,  hungry  gnawing. 
And  run  with  pattering  feet ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I3I 


They  know  the  saw  that's  sawing 
For  dinner  in  the  street. 

He  needs  nor  watch,  nor  bell, 

Nor  any  tongue  of  sound, 
His  dinner  hour  to  tell ; 
He  knows  the  signal  well  — 

His  shadow  on  the  ground^ 
So  short  and  trim  and  neat. 
Close  lying  at  his  feet  — 

That  noon  has  come  around. 
His  dial's  always  right. 
And  so's  his  appetite. 
His  youngsters  caper  round  him, 

And  for  their  kisses  climb  — 
So  glad  that  they  have  found  him 

Just  in  the  nick  of  time. 
And  on  the  curbstone  prattling, 
Amid  the  city's  rattling. 

On  saw-dust  cushioned  seat 

They  sit  them  down  to  eat  — 
A  poor  man's  family  party  — 

Three  in  a  row  complete  ; 
They  take  with  hunger  hearty 

Their  dinner  in  the  street :  — 
A  loaf  of  bread,  no  butter. 
Ice  water  from  the  gutter, 

A  very  little  meat ; 


132  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  saw  needs  half  the  latter 
To  still  its  clamorous  clatter ;  — 

The  saw  has  teeth  to  eat 
Its  share  —  and  that  the  fatter  — 

Of  dinner  in  the  street. 

See  older  faces  peering 

Through  parlor  windows  high, 

Like  angels  from  the  sky  — 
Some  wrong  to  mortals  fearing, 

And  standing  helpful  by. 
See  little  children  leading  — 

As  children  only  can  — 
Their  elders,  sweetly  pleading : 
*'  O  !  come  and  see  a  7nan;  " 
And  man  he  is  —  presiding, 

In  royal  office  crowned, 
And  feeds  his  heart,  dividing 

The  scanty  fare  around  ; 
And  who  could  look,  deriding 

That  dinner  on  the  ground  ! 

The  street  door  opens  swinging, 

With  hospitable  air ; 
And  children's  feet  bound,  ringing 

Upon  the  marble  stair ; 
With  wreaths  and  ribbons  gay 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 33 


Decked  up  like  Holiday, 
The  little  people  cluster, 
With  pretty  fuss  and  fluster. 

And  then  march  down  in  line 
With  all  the  house  can  muster 

Of  meat,  and  bread,  and  wine. 

Thus  children  come  together, 
On  Human  ground  secure  ; 

Nor  care  nor  question  whether 
Their  blood  is  rich  or  poor. 

A  lovely  sight  to  see  — 

Among  the  banks  of  snow. 
In  young  Humanity 

The  flowers  of  Friendship  grow. 
And  at  the  table  lowly. 

It  seems  the  angels  wait. 
To  teach  the  lesson  —  holy  — 

Of  equal  mortal  state. 
Fruits,  viands,  wines  and  meats  — 

Like  fairy  gifts  in  fable :  — 
The  rags  upon  the  seats  — 

Silks  serving  at  the  table. 

Where  anger  flashed  at  sawing. 
The  marble  seems  to  melt ; 

The  snow  and  sleet  are  thawing 
With  warming  they  have  felt. 


134  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  sawyer's  world  is  brightened ; 

His  wintry  prospect  clears  ; 
The  children's  hearts  are  lightened 

With  flow  of  happy  tears. 
The  prattle  of  affection  — 

How  musically  sweet ! 
And  sweet  the  recollection 

O'  that  dinner  in  the  street. 


CORONATION. 


YORKTOWN   CENTENNIAL   ODE. 


jN  Independence  Day, 
ffifll  W^^^  the  old  world  was  going  its  old  way  — 
Unmindful  of  the  groans 
That  rose  around  the  footstools  of  its  thrones, 
Where  Tyranny  held  iron-sceptered  sway, 
A  strange  voice  came 
From  tongue  of  flame ; 
The  sky  bent  low  to  hear  the  heroic  sound. 
And,  as  the  drowsy  waking  globe  rolled  round, 
A  cluster  of  bright  stars, 
.    Swept  from  the  shield  of  Mars, 
Blazed  down  upon  divinely  consecrated  ground. 

Then  Freedom's  fire  arose; 
A  new  light  flashed  and  flamed  in  all  men's  eyes ; 
A  starry  banner  floated  in  the  skies, 

Aflrighting  mankind's  foes 
In  castle  walls,  and  palaces  afar ; 

While  o'er  a  valiant  band  — 

First  Home-guard  of  the  land  — 
Shone  Hope's  Lone  Star. 


136  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Rang  Independence  bell  — 
Reverberate  amid  the  trumpet's  blare ; 
And  human  shackles  fell, 
And  Tyrants  heard  their  knell 
Tolled  out  upon  the  free  and  all-encircling  air. 

At  Freedom's  second  birth 
The  wise  men  of  the  West  went  forth  to  greet 
The  dawning  promise  of  the  laboring  Earth 

And  her  fruition  sweet. 

How  many  fathers  looked  their  joy, 

How  many  mothers  smiled  ! 

•  But  Kingcraft  plotted  to  destroy 

The  young  prophetic  child. 

Came  war's  alarms 

And  rush  to  arms, 
For  Heirship's  vested  Royal  Right  — 

Man's  heritage 

For  many  an  age 
Withheld  by  armed  usurping  might. 

Where  Virtue  guided,  Wisdom  led. 

The  birthright  to  defend ; 
For  every  native  foe  that  fled, 
There  came  a  foreign  friend ; 
Until  the  allied  armies  loving  stood 
In  common,  patriotic  Fatherhood. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 3/ 


Hark  !     The  battle's  sullen  boom, 

And  storm  of  iron  crashing; 
And  see  !     War's  lurid  gloom, 

And  rain  of  life-blood  dashing. 

Cause  —  the  noblest  ever  tried 

By  highest  court  or  nation ; 
Mortals  sprang  up  —  Deified, 

To  recreate  Creation. 

O  Titans,  drive  your  blows 

Where  thickest  swarm  Man's  foes ; 

A  plastic  world's  the  stake 

To  mould,  or  mar,  or  make,       * 

In  the  ensanguined  throes 

Of  formative  earthquake. 

Shock  followed  shock,  by  land  and  sea, 
And  every  blow  struck  mightily. 
To  found  a  country  of  the  Free  — 
To  build  a  home  for  the  Refugee. 

In   every  noble,  grand  emprise 
Some  men  must  fall  that  more  may  rise ; 
And  earth  is  lifted  toward  the  skies 
The  moment  that  a  martyr  dies. 

Through  all  the  long,  long  night 
The  storm  cloud  lowered  upon  the  shuddering  land ; 
And  through  the  fluctuations  of  the  fight 


138  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Fought  on  that  gallant  band  — 
Sealing  with  blood 
Where'er  they  stood, 
The  Freeman's  bond  of  Brotherhood ; 
Carving  upon  the  rugged  Earth's  round  face 
The  future  fortunes  of  the  Human  Race ; 
Bearing  Right's  Ark 
Safe  through  the  dark 
And  dismal  vale  of  Death  : 
They  set  it  in  the  Morning's  Dawn, 

And  drew  the  first  free  breath 
A  continent  had  ever  drawn. 

On  Yorktown's  Golden  Day 
Man's  youngest  born  began  life  her  own  way  — 

Unfettered,  fair  and  free, 
And  teeming  with  the  fruitfulness  to  be. 

A  goddess  sprung  from  human  strain. 
Like  Pallas  from  the  Thunderer's  brain  — 
Full  armed,  and  garlanded  with  green  — 
A  mighty  mother —  maiden  queen ; 
The  People's  type  —  bred  to  command  — 
Subject,  and  Sovereign  of  the  Land. 

Goddess  of  our  country  born, 

Symbol  of  a  Nation's  rise. 
Glowing  in  our  Freedom's  morn  — 

Sweet  Aurora  of  our  skies. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


139 


Goddess,  at  whose  cradle  stood 
Heroes  —  yet  without  a  name, 

Till  they  guarded  Thee  with  blood. 
Till  they  reared  Thee  into  fame. 

This  is  Coronation  Day 

Which  we  dedicate  to  Thee ; 
Wear  the  crown,  and  hold  the  way 

Leading  still  to  Liberty. 

And  Yorktown  led  the  van  that  day  supreme  — 
Of  moment  deep  to  every  coming  age ;    . 

All  olden  story  faded  in  the  beam 

That  lighted  up  our  History's  living  page. 

The  heirs  of  Royalty  are  Freedom's  men, 
And  every  man  is  sovereign  in  his  right; 

The  gods  and  kings  yield  up  their  sway,  and  then 
The  world  swings  shining  from  the  realms  of  Night. 


A  life  begun 
In  song  and  sun  : 
Behold  the  wonders  it  has  done ! 

A  hemisphere 
Of  sky  —  all  clear; 
And  not  a  foe  found  lurking  near. 

A  pledge  of  Peace 
Upon  the  breeze 
Came  singing  o'er  Atlantic  seas. 


140  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  little  band 
That  freed  the  strand 
Made  their  own  Deed  for  all  the  land. 

An  hundred  years  have  flown 
Behind  the  peaceful  coronation  of  our  Queen ; 

And  she  is  younger  grown, 
In  all  the  flower  and  fruiting  time  between. 

Both  War  and  Peace 

Have  brought  increase 
Beneath  the  happy  sunshine  of  her  eyes. 

And  now  behold ! 

The  goddess  mould 
Of  her  fair  figure  wrapped  around  with  skies. 

A  nation  gre^it, 

We  dedicate 
Her  century  shaft  with  love  and  state. 

Her  kinsmen  all, 

Kelt,  Goth  and  Gaul  — 
All  helped  to  rear  this  column  tall. 

With  the  whole  world  at  peace,  and  war-scars  healed, 
Columbia  stands  and  views  her  golden  field ; 
From  sea  to  sea,  through  every  fruitful  zone, 
The  sky  is  smiling,  and  the  Earth's  her  own  ; 
When,  sometimes,  for  a  chieftain  slain  she  grieves, 
Our  Mother  Briton  sends  her  cypress  leaves. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I4I 


And  Yorktown's  silent  guns 
Spoke  louder  than  their  thunder  roar, 

And  gave  to  mankind  all  at  once 
Glad  tidings  from  our  shore : 

One-half  the  World  is  free: 
The  swift  prophetic  message  Eastward  ran, 

Enlarging  in  all  Time  to  be 
The  God-like  Possibilities  of  Man. 

The  hands  of  South  and  North 
Clasped  on  the  "  Glorious  Fourth," 

And  from  the  East  went  up  the  battle-cry ; 
But  since  our  arms  were  blest. 
The  wide  and  wondrous  West 

Has  borne  the  fullest  fruitage  of  July. 

One  bright  October  day 
A  New-World  Nation  started  on  its  way 

The  Star  of  Empire  glowed 
On  wilds  and  summits  of  its  Western  road ; 
A  home-made  race  of  giants  grandly  strode : 

O'er  peaks  and  plains. 

Throbbed  fire-fed  veins  — 
A  continent  to  win  from  savagery, 
Till  from  the  heights  all  saw  the  circling  sea. 

Those  valiant  sons  of  Mars, 

Forever  crowned  with  stars. 
So  shaped  the  upward  course  of  Human  Destiny. 


VAGGED. 


[AGGED,  an  ugly  word  to  utter,  bearing  in 
.,,,.,„.,.,  its  sound  a  sting, 

<^^'''  Bitter  as  the  breath  can  temper  one  to  stab 
a  hateful  thing. 
He  is  vagged,  your  Honor  tells  me  —  sent  to  wear  a 

ball  and  chain  ? 
Just  so !  strong  drink  drove  him  crazy,  —  gave  him 
crotchets  in  his  brain. 

God    of    Heaven!     Is    he    among    the    evil-doers 

smutched  with  crime  ? 
Found  him  in  the  vagrant  quarter,  where   the  city 

reeks  with  slime. 
Begging,  came  he  here  for  shelter  many  nights  in 

snow  and  sleet, 
'Till  his  name  got  on  the  docket  —  drunk  and  sleep- 
•    ing  on  the  street. 


Aye  !  I  know  —  the  same  old  story ;  caught  in  Fort- 
une's wind  and  rain ; 

But  this  man  was  great  among  men,  and  bred  giants 
in  his  brain  — 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I43 


Understood  the  Age's  movement ;  mingled  with  its 

action  grand, 
While  your  court  stood  back  in  terror,  looking  on 

with  palsied  hand. 

Bore  a  general's  name  with  honor  underneath  dis- 
astrous star. 

Was  a  hero  among  heroes  —  drove  the  tide  and 
storm  of  war. 

Like  a  guardian  angel  sleeping  on  a  lucent  couch 
of  air  — 

See  the  flag  that  floats  above  you  ;  well,  this  vagrant 
raised  it  there. 

Had  no  friend  in  his  disaster  courage  to  come  forth 

and  stand 
By  his  side  when  he  was  falling  —  take  him  friendly 

by  the  hand  ? 
Stronger  claims  than  wife  or  mother  are  the  badges 

that  he  wore 
On  the  deep  heart  of  his  country  shrined  within  his 

bosom's  core. 

Other  marks  he  had  where  valor  set  its  honorable 

seal ; 
And  did  they  not  plead  to  save  him  ?     Wounds  are 

hollow  when  they  heal ! 


144  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Scars  are  beggars  of  the  body,  falling  in  their  mute 

appeal ; 
And  the  world  forgets  its  builders,  and  men  do  not, 

can  not  feel ! 

Sympathy  has  frozen  fingers  fumbling  round  its 
purse's  dole ; 

Tears  are  tricks  to  be  ashamed  of —  no  more  dew- 
drops  of  the  soul. 

No  purse  had  for  him  a  pittance  when  his  fortunes 
met  such  shock ; 

No  eye  had  a  pitying  tear-drop  when  he  graced  the 
prisoner's  dock. 

No  one  here  with  recognition  kindly  met  him  when 

he  came ; 
No  one  here  could  help  misfortune  hide  from  shame 

an  honored  name. 
Here  it  stands  upon  the  record,  every  idle  eye  to 

meet ; 
Vagged  —  fined  as  usual — work-house;  drunk  and 

sleeping  on  the  street ! 

Tried  to  shield  him,  but  he  would  not  —  wrote  his 

own  name  full,  you  see ; 
Said  he  saw  no  valid  reason  why  a  general's  should 

not  be 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I45 


Written  full,  with  proper  title,  so  the  rank  was  e'en 

set  down. 
All  is  fair  and  square  and  lawful  —  drunken  king  is 

but  a  clown. 

Judge,  I  tell  you  'tis  outrageous !  such  vile  penalties 

and  pains ! 
Your  Court  Terrible  is  lawful,  but  it  can  not  feel  for 

brains. 
Brains  ?     How  now  ?     In  sober  earnest  ?  or  in  vein 

of  jesting  sport? 
Either  way  it  frets  my  honor,  and  becomes  contempt 

of  court ! 

But  you  wrong  the  court,  for  really  he  was  homeless, 

old,  and  I  — 
Sent  him  tottering  to  the  work-house,  as  a  healthy 

place  to  die. 
Just  so;  now  he's  free  and  happy  —  no  more  pangs 

of  wounded  pride ; 
Yet   for  Justice   sake,  historians,    make   no  record 

where  he  died. 

Tell  it  not,  and  yet  to  Justice  e'en  the  court  of  Death 
must  yield ; 

And  some  poet  may  hereafter  sing  of  graves  in  Pot- 
ter's Field. 


146 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 


Justice  is  the  law  eternal  —  wrong  and  ruth  are  only- 
lent; 

O'er  the  grave  of  our  dead  soldier  let  us  build  fit 
monument. 


NERO. 


FROM  THE   GERMAN  OF  UDO   BRACHVOGEL. 


g^-p^RING  hither  lights !    Laugh  down  the  dark- 
,ness; 
Let  waxen  beams  unnumbered  shine ; 
To  Hades  every  shade  of  sadness ; 
Come  music's  swell  and  foaming  wine. 
Let  waves  of  flame  sport  like  the  ocean, 

And  night's  dark  brow  be  crowned  with  light ; 
Then  breathe  all  round  the  breath  of  roses  — 
My  heart  is  full  of  its  own  night. 


"  The  harp  !  my  boy  with  golden  tresses, 

For  light  and  music's  tone  I  pine ; 
Thy  glance  is  day,  thy  song  is  gladness. 

Thou  knowest  a  great  reward  is  thine. 
Sing  Troy,  with  all  its  turrets  blazing. 

Which  laughed  to  scorn  the  sun-god's  might. 
And  conjure  far  this  gathering  blackness  — 

My  heart  is  steeped  in  its  own  night." 


148         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Thus  Caesar  spake,  and  then,  reclining. 

He  caught  and  clasped  his  favorite's  knee. 
The  songs  are  brought  from  golden  casket 

Which  opens  with  a  golden  key. 
The  minstrel  calls  to  memory,  smiling, 

The  stately  march  of  Virgil's  song ; 
His  prelude,  like  the  dreamy  murmur 

Of  rippling  waters,  plays  along. 

But  soon  it  swells,  as  billows  foaming 

Plunge  down  some  cliff's  majestic  form; 
The  dashing  floods  and  winds  commingle, 

And  words  and  music  wed  in  storm. 
Now  lost  to  ear  is  rhythmic  cadence, 

Fate  blows  a  brazen  blast  of  dread ; 
And  'mid  the  lance's  gleam  and  clashing. 

Comes  thundering  on  the  war-god's  tread. 

The  children  scream,  and  wail  the  women  ; 

Unchecked  the  fiends  and  fates  conspire. 
And  rush  and  glare  o'er  dead  and  dying ; 

The  torch  leaps  forth,  and  Troy's  on  fire. 
Neath  blood-red  surges  falls  the  city 

The  gods  believed  eternal ;  dread 
Seized  suddenly  the  faltering  minstrel, 

Then  choked  his  voice  and  sunk  his  head. 

His  lips  were  locked  with  pangs  of  anguish. 
Of  mighty  song  the  outward  trace  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  14^ 


But  soon  arose  a  ruddy  north-light, 
And  flushed  his  chiselled  Grecian  face. 

"  In  vain !  '*  the  minstrel  sighed ;  "  no  further 
My  wings  can  bear  this  daring  flight ; 

To  sing  the  poet's  inspiration 

Must  I  have  burning  Troy  in  sight." 

With  flaming  brow  the  monarch,  turning. 

Sprang  up  and  cried :     "  So  let  it  be  ! 
Ascend  we  to  the  golden  terrace ; 

Thy  madness,  boy,  is  heaven's  decree. 
And  if  'tis  thine,  'tis  mine  in  spirit. 

Or  have  the  gods  taught  thee  my  dream  ? 
Howe'er  it  be,  I  own  a  madness 

The  gods  themselves  will  worthy  deem. 

"  Here  blaze  the  torches ;  here  are  goblets, 

And  here  the  lyre  with  golden  ring ; 
A  second  time  shall  fire  storm  Ilium  ; 

A  second  song  shall  Virgil  sing. 
Fill  up  for  me  the  goblet  brimming 

With  famed  Falerno's  fiery  foam ; 
I  quaff  a  deep,  imperial  bumper. 

Here's  health  to  thee,  my  Troy  in  Rome. 

"  My  hands  shall  scatter  roses  o'er  thee ; 

To  Phaeton's  chariot  I  aspire  ; 
The  torch  !     Bring  hither  many  flambeaus  — 

Bring  flaming,  hungering  brands  of  fire." 


150  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

And  brand  on  brand  flies  hissing  downward 
On  sleeping  Rome's  deep-pulsing  breast ; 

The  monarch's  limbs  with  pleasure  tremble, 
For  mad  delight  has  made  him  blest. 

A  purple  blush  night's  brow  suffuses, 

And  smoke  and  vapor  reddening  rise ; 
The  fire-fiends  dance  in  circles  upward, 

And  fiery  tongues  lick  o'er  the  skies. 
The  children  scream,  and  wail  the  women  ; 

Unchecked  the  fiends  and  fates  conspire. 
And  rush  and  glare  o'er  dead  and  dying  — 

It  spreads  !  and  Rome  is  wrapped  in  fire. 

Thus  falls  in  dust  and  ashes  storming 

Rome's  ancient  splendor,  matchless  might ; 
With  clouded  face  the  moon  flies  trembling, 

As  if  to  shun  the  hideous  sight. 
To  greet  the  radiant  blush  of  morning. 

Deceived,  the  lark-choirs  singing  rise ; 
Like  brides,  a  troop  of  gay  Auroras 

O'er  Rome  in  ruins  tread  the  skies. 

And  roll  the  waters  of  the  Tiber 

Like  molten  suns  through  night's  domains. 

The  monarch  gave  one  look  of  rapture ; 
A  fever  shoots  through  all  his  veins. 

The  royal  barge  came  at  his  bidding, 
With  roses  lined  on  every  side ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


151 


He  stepped  on  board  in  royal  purple, 
And  glided  o'er  the  crimson  tide. 

So  speeds  the  night,  while  ever  gentler 

The  boat  is  rocked  by  wave  and  wind ; 
Then  spake  the  tyrant  —  pleasure-glutted 

"  My  eyes  are  sated ;  now  be  blind !  " 
At  flush  of  dawn  the  pilots  homeward 

Slow  steer  the  prow,  and  gain  the  land. 
A  low  voice  breathes  among  the  roses : 

"  Now  Virgil's  song  I  understand. 

**  I  thank  thee,  boy,  of  tresses  golden ; 

Take  thou  this  diadem  from  me  — 
The  symbol  of  imperial  station, 

Thus  from  my  brow  I  yield  to  thee. 
Nay  —  take  it  softly ;  I  implore  thee 

Dispel  not  soon  this  vision  bright, 
Lest  when  it  fails,  my  heart,  now  blissful, 

Be  plunged  again  in  its  old  night." 


DISENTHRALLED. 


WANDER  forth  on  the  dank  cold  ground 
By  the  shore  of  a  frozen  river ; 
L  The  earth  and  waters  are  winter-bound, 
I  feel  their  rough  breath  and  shiver 
As  I  draw  my  cloak  of  fur  around, 
And  look  on  the  lifeless  river. 

My  soul  is  bound  as  the  fettered  stream, 
And  more  than  the  sky  'tis  dreary ; 

A  pall  is  over  my  life's  young  dream, 
And  my  fancy's  wings  are  weary. 

Where  are  the  visions  which  used  to  teem 
When  the  voice  of  hope  was  cheery  ? 

I  sit  me  down  on  the  cushioned  ground 

Beside  a  shimmering  river ; 
Spring  comes  with  a  merry  and  lightsome  bound, 

And  the  leaves  and  grasses  quiver. 
And  daisies  and  buttercups  flutter  around 

On  the  marge  of  the  rippling  river. 

The  rustling  hosts  with  banners  of  green, 

Sly  over  the  hills  are  glancing ; 
While  marching  down  the  valleys  are  seen 

The  timid  pickets  advancing 
In  armor  bright  with  velvety  sheen 

On  breezy  coursers  prancing.  . 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 5  3 


They  gallop  to  bolted  doors  and  knock : 
Awake !    Awake  from  your  dreaming  ! 

They  shout  to  the  weird  wind-beaten  stalk 
With  olden  memories  teeming  : 

The  spirit  within  revives  with  the  shock, 
And  opens  its  windows  gleaming. 

And  all  abroad  over  valley  and  hill, 
With  touch  and  tone  awaking 

From  icy  grasp  and  passionless  chill 
And  tattered  garments  flaking  — 

The  elfin  army  bounds  with  a  thrill  — 
Its  winter  bondage  breaking. 

The  troopers  surround  my  lone  retreat, 
And  my  prisoned  soul  deliver ; 

They  waltz  with  zephyrs  about  my  feet 
With  graceful  curve  and  quiver : 

With  garlands  they  twine  my  grassy  seat, 
Beside  the  shimmering  river. 

The  air  is  choked  by  the  harmonies 
That  pour  with  the  sunshine's  gushing  ; 

And  gala  flags  are  hung  in  the  trees 
With  blood  of  the  spring-time  flushing, 

And  singing  and  humming,  birds  and  bees 
The  frolicsome  winds  are  hushing. 


154  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  fairies  knock  at  my  spirit's  door 
Locked  close  with  pain  and  sadness ; 

I  rise  renewed  on  the  beautiful  shore, 
Redeemed  from  thrall  of  madness. 

The  demons  of  darkness  follow  no  more 
My  soul  which  walks  in  gladness. 

I  sit  me  down  by  the  river  of  thought, 

In  calm  and  sweet  devotion ; 
With  life  and  vigor  the  spring  has  wrought 

In  the  pulse  of  dead  emotion : 
By  the  dance  of  the  rippling  waves  I'm  taught 

The  boundless  roll  of  the  ocean. 


'l5»p^^V^:^^^ 

W^^^S/0^^ 

^^ 

THE    MYSTIC, 


MYSTIC  being  I  call  to  mind, 
Who  wanders  o'er  earth  alone  ; 
£!t/2±.  Amonsfst  the  millions  of  human  kind 
He  mingles  and  works  —  unknown. 
Who  is  the  stranger  ?     What  is  his  name  ? 

His  rank,  his  mission,  his  sphere  ? 
The  passing  wonder  is  whence  he  came, 
And  what  is  he  doing  here  ? 

He  comes  where  masses  of  people  meet, 

In  every  clime  and  land  ; 
None  hear  the  tread  of  his  slippered  feet. 

Yet  many  have  grasped  his  hand. 
I  see  him  now  !     He  is  smiling  —  there  — 

With  features  of  genial  mould ; 
He's  young,  and  more  than  a  mortal  fair, 

Yet  flourished  in  days  of  old. 

Start  not  —  his  manners  are  human  —  see. 
He  breathes  in  a  healthful  calm ; 

His  manhood  is  gentle,  his  spirit  free. 
His  heart  is  pure  as  the  lamb. 


156  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

How  strange  his  being  —  so  old,  yet  young  ! 

Was  ever  such  mortal  before  ? 
He  lives  —  the  type  of  lineage,  sprung 

From  mystical  sages  of  yore. 

He  burst  from  a  dim  Olympian  height 

When  first  the  races  began  ; 
He  bears  the  Orient's  banner  of  light 

Adown  the  ages  of  man. 
'Mid  Spring's  early  blooms  —  before  the  flood, 

When  nature  was  blithe  and  young, 
He  tilled  the  green  earth  where  Babel  stood. 

And  spoke  the  primeval  tongue. 

In  Shinar  he  saw  the  human  tide, 

Which  swelled  with  a  tumult  grand. 
In  billowy  cohorts  surging  wide  — 

Dash  on  to  the  Promised  Land. 
Around  him  peoples  lay  wrecked  and  tossed. 

The  sport  of  the  Storm-King's  breath; 
He  saved  some  fragments,  where  all  seemed  lost 

And  conquered  the  phantom  Death ! 

He  saw  the  Old  World  wonders  gleam. 
As  they  rose  in  shadowy  light — 

Like  golden  domes  that  shine  in  a  dream, 
On  the  dark  back-ground  of  night. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  15/ 


Another  morn  —  the  vision  had  fled  ; 

He  walked  amid  ruins  alone; 
And  nothing  told  of  the  vanished  dead 

Save  histories  carved  in  stone. 

He  knew  their  story,  and  wandered  on  — 

One  lingering  look  he  cast ; 
Then  rose  in  the  sphere  of  a  brighter  dawn, 

And  shed  the  light  of  the  past. 
The  springs  of  ages  renewed  his  youth 

With  blossoms  and  change  sublime  ; 
He  found  the  gold  of  eternal  truth. 

And  coined  the  ingots  for  Time. 

He  drank  at  the  Chaldean  fount  of  thought, 

Ere  yet  it  was  stained  with  guile; 
And,  deep  in  mysterious  knowledge,  taught 

The  dusky  priests  of  the  Nile. 
By  sea  and  by  land,  —  from  coast  to  coast 

Did  the  wondrous  Chaldean  roam  ; 
Where  Israel's  Kings  led  the  Judean  host 

He  built  for  the  Tribes  a  home. 

He  passed  the  dread  ordeal  of  strife. 
And  glows  —  a  symbol  of  Truth ; 

He  quaffed  the  soul's  elixir  of  Life, 
And  blooms  in  immortal  youth. 


158  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE   MUSES. 

A  mystic  !  —  come  from  the  ancient  days 
With  wisdom,  and  craft,  and  lore ; 

Whose  daily  walks  are  the  humble  ways 
Where  virtue  ennobles  the  poor. 

He  tempers  the  heat  of  passions  strong 

•    By  language  of  tender  tone ; 

His  voice  has  a  deeper  charm  than  song, 

And  every  tongue  is  his  own. 
He  meets  the  scourge  of  the  desert,  grim. 

And  reeking  with  spoils  and  gore ; 
He  speaks  —  the  barbarian  yields  to  him, 

And  revels  in  blood  no  more. 

I  see  him  go  on  an  errand  of  love 

For  a  brother  oppressed  with  care ; 
In  secret  he  kneels  to  the  Throne  above 

For  a  brother's  soul,  in  prayer. 
He  locks  in  his  bosom  the  sacred  breath 

Of  confidence  held  most  dear; 
The  erring  he  guides  from  the  vale  of  deg,th, 

And  whispers  a  word  of  cheer. 

The  guard  of  Beauty,  he  stands  by  her  side. 
Between  her  weakness  and  harm. 

And  mother,  sister,  daughter,  or  bride. 
Is  safe  at  his  good  right  arm. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 59 


He  draws  a  magic  circle  around 

Th'  ideal  that  charms  his  mind ; 
None  dare  intrude  on  the  sacred  ground 

Where  love  and  virtue  are  shrined. 

Where  daylight  glooms  and  the  air  is  defiled, 

And  worth  is  by  penury  tried, 
A  widowgasps — dying — '^My  child  !  my  child  ! 

The  stranger  stands  at  her  side. 
His  magic  revives  her  fading  sight 

With  joy's  most  exquisite  thrill ; 
The  soul  of  the  mother  is  crowned  with  light, 

The  child  has  a  guardian  still. 

From  drooping  age's  tottering  form 

He  lifts  a  cumbersome  load ; 
He  shields  the  shelterless  head  from  storm, 

And  smooths  life's  rugged  road. 
With  Death  he  enters  his  presence  grand 

To  brighten  the  closing  scene  ; 
And  in  the  grave  with  fraternal  hand 

He  plants  the  evergreen. 

I  see  him  gleam  through  the  battle's  smoke 

In  glorious  prowess  revealed ; 
He  turns  the  edge  of  the  hostile  stroke. 

And  foes  part  friends  on  the  field. 


l60  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  mystic  plies  his  wonderful  art ;  — 

His  temples  adorn  all  lands ; 
In  secret  he  builds,  and  moulds  the  heart 

For  "  the  house  not  made  with  hands." 

And  when  the  wrongs  of  humanity  plead 

For  a  hero  to  lead  the  van, 
The  power  is  rife  in  the  loins  of  need, 

And  the  Times  bring  forth  the  man. 
The  heart  of  mankind  conceived  :^-he  came. 

The  child  of  Faith  and  Desire; 
His  life  is  the  spirit  of  earthly  flame  — 

Baptized  with  Heavenly  fire. 

Whence  comes  the  magical  charm  he  bears  ? 

His  purpose  is  great  and  good  ! 
His  mother  inspired  the  smile  he  wears, 

And  named  him  —  Brotherhood ! 
He  honors  the  parent  that  gave  him  birth 

With  love  that  never  will  cease, 
And  hence  his  days  are  long  on  the  earth ;  — 

His  mission  is  crowned  with  peace. 

An  artisan  ;  yet  he  wears  no  sign 
That  might  his  calling  declare ; 

Within  and  not  on  his  bosom  shine 
The  trowel,  compass  and  square. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  l6l 


A  mystic  ?     Yes,  if  power  for  good 
Be  proof  of  the  mystic's  art ! 

A  stranger  ?     Ah !  no,  for  Brotherhood 
Reigns  over  the  realm  of  Heart. 


RAKING   HAY. 


WAS  in  the  days  of  mowing 

With  honest  arm  and  scythe  ; 
When  neighbors  helped  in  neighbors*  fields, 
And  harvest  hands  were  blythe. 
And  I  was  then  a  stripling  — 

They  called  me  half  a  hand  —      n 
Among  the  stalwart,  sunbrowned  men 
Who  tilled  the  clover-land. 

The  lines  of  mowers  mowing 

With  swinging  pace  along ; 
The  cadence  of  the  rhythmic  strokes 

Set  heart  a-beating  song. 
Sweet  music  of  the  whetstones. 

Like  morning  bells  in  chime. 
Tuned  mellow,  through  some  harsher  sounds  — 

My  heart's  still  beating  time. 


Right  onward  marched  the  mowers 
Knee  deep  in  flowering  grass ; 

They  ranged  according  to  their  skill 
Like  school-boys  in  a  class. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  163 


And  strength  was  brought  to  trial. 
And  strove  with  wrestler's  wroth  — 

Who  could  the  smoothest  stubble  cut, 
And  who  the  widest  swath  ? 

How  proudly  strove  the  leader  — 

The  swiftest  and  the  best ! 
He  held  his  place  a  cut  or  two 

Ahead  of  all  the  rest ; 
Allowed  no  one  to  lead  him 

The  breadth  of  brawny  hand :  — 
A  master  of  the  mowing-craft. 

He  ruled  the  clover-land. 

The  morning  beams  came  glancing 

The  fluttering  tree-tops  thro'. 
Like  golden  bills  of  birds  that  bent 

To  sip  the  sparkling  dew. 
And  then  in  mild  mid-morning, 

Began  the  harvest  day, 
And  all  hands  —  girls  and  boys  and  meYi  - 

Were  merry  making  hay. 

Then  came  a  choice  of  partners 

Who  could  the  best  agree. 
And  lots  were  drawn  by  glances  quick  — 

Kate  always  fell  to  me ! 


164         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Now  turn  thy  glass,  O  mem'ry, 

Upon  that  harvest-day. 
Which  poured  its  sunshine  over  me 

And  Katie  making  hay. 

The  morning  call  of  luncheon 

To  grassy  table  laid, 
Assembled  all  the  haymakers 

Beneath  a  lone  tree's  shade  ; 
A  bliss  of  rest  and  breathing 

By  leafy  fingers  fanned  — 
And  then  another  haying-heat 

Raced  o'er  tlie  clover  land. 

We  spread  the  swaths  commingling 

In  beds  of  rustling  brown. 
And  rich  field-odors  floated  up 

On  wings  of  feathery  down. 
Then  rolled  the  ridgy  windrows  — 

The  triumphs  of  the  day : 
I  dreamed  o'er  triumphs  of  a  life 

With  Katie  raking  hay. 

She  looked  all  over  bonnet  — 
Of  gingham,  blue  and  white  — 

Her  face's  roses  in  the  shade 

Glanced  out  their  own  sweet  light. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


i6s 


Her  rake  would  get  entangled 
Sometimes,  by  locking  mine, 

And  when  she  said  :  "  Provoking  thing !  " 
E'en  quarreling  was  divine  ! 

A  spring  of  bubbling  waters 

Welled  up  in  woodside  cool. 
And  ever  at  the  field's  end  hedge 

Both  thirsted  for  the  pool. 
She  drank  from  out  a  goblet 

I  made  her  of  my  hands, 
And,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  I  quaffed 

From  cup  of  golden  sands. 

The  last  load  in  the  twilight 

Dragged  slowly  towards  the  stack  — 
Just  like  a  great  brown  burly  beast 

With  children  on  its  back ; 
And  flecky  clouds  hung  over, 

Of  softest  creamy  hue, 
Like  handfuls  plucked  from  cotton  bales 

And  dashed  against  the  blue. 


I'm  dreaming  now  of  haytime, 
The  fields  and  skies  are  bright ; 

I  see  among  the  harvesters 
A  bonnet  —  blue  and  white  — 


V 
1 66  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


And  Katie's  face  is  in  it, 
A  shade,  it  may  be,  tanned; 

But  'tis  the  fairest  face  of  all 
That  grace  the  clover  land. 

The  clover  crop  was  gathered 

In  harvests  long  ago  ; 
Another  partner  Katie  chose 

For  life's  uphill  windrow. 
But  oh,  of  all  the  sunshine 

That  ever  blessed  a  day  — 
The  crown  still  shimmers  over  me 

And  Katie  raking  hay. 


THE  OLD   CLERK. 


HE  old  clerk  climbed  on   his  counting- 
room  stool, 
Prompt  as  the  early  sun ; 
His  day-book  and  ledger,  rubber  and  rule 
Were  brought  forth  one  by  one. 
He  seemed  to  shrink 
From  the  spots  of  ink 
That  frowned  on  him  there  alone ; 

And  sometimes  grimly  smiled  to  think 
That  his  hands  were  not  his  own. 

Through  shadows  thick  falling  around  him. 

No  light  can  dim  vision  descry ; 
In  the  fetters  by  which  fate  has  bound  him 

There's  nothing  for  him  but  to  die. 

The  old  clerk  sat  on  his  high-top  stool 

All  bowed  with  toil  and  woe ; 
And  dreamed  of  a  boy  who  romped  at  school 

A  many  a  year  ago. 


l68  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

His  heart  beat  light, 

No  shade  of  blight 
Had  crossed  his  sunny  face  ; 

His  being  was  all  golden  bright  — 
A  type  of  youthful  grace. 

No  stains  were  on  his  delicate  hands ; 

His  face  beamed  health  and  joy  ; 
Time  turned  his  glass !  —  the  glowing  sands 

Ran  golden  towards  the  boy. 
Lost  voices  swelled  with  silver  ring, 

His  clouded  sense  grew  clear, 
Bleak  Winter  melted  into  Spring  — 

The  springtime  of  the  year. 
Life's  morning  dawned  with  ruddy  flame, 

Arrayed  in  vernal  sheen 
The  frost  of  seventy  years  became 
The  dew  of  seventeen. 

The  dream  soon  passed  — 
Dreams  never  last ; 
That  youth  is  worn  and  old ; 
A  cheerless  life 
Of  toil  and  strife 
Hath  left  him  grim  and  cold. 
The  ghosts  of  all  his  drudging  years 

Before  his  vision  rise ; 
The  shrouded  form  of  Hope  appears. 
And  mocks  his  sunken  eyes. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 69 


This  was  no  dream ;  he  raised  his  face 

O'er  fancy's  flattering  mask  ; 
He  then  resumed  his  lowly  place, 

And  plied  his  daily  task. 

On  the  verge  of  the  world  he  lingers. 
And  croons  a  moaning  refrain. 

While  drumming  with  trembling  fingers 
To  the  plaintively  dolorous  strain. 

Look  at  his  dreary  prison  cell  — 

Excluding  air  and  light ; 
The  prisoned  eye  alone  can  tell 

If  it  be  day  or  night. 
Spiders  of  olden-time  had  spread 

Their  gossamer  net-work  there ; 
But  even  they,  affrighted,  fled 

From  the  dank,  unwholesome  air. 
The  shrinking  tracks  of  the  old  clerk's  life 

All  center  in  this  dark  room ; 
His  little  ones  and  his  patient  wife 

Were  hidden  in  deeper  gloom. 
They  cowered  in  the  cold,  deep  city. 

In  rags,  and  squalor,  and  dread  — 
Too  proud  for  the  guerdon  of  pity. 

While  starving  for  daily  bread. 
To  his  hapless  fortune  they  clung 

With  the  feverish  gripe  of  despair ; 


^ 


I/O  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE^  MUSES. 

When  they  perished,  each  death-knell  rung 

*'Amen  "  to  a  wailing  prayer. 
These  ties  of  a  home  and  the  hearth 

Were  sundered,  one  by  one ; 
They  fell  to  the  pitying  earth, 

And  left  him  alone  —  alone  ! 
Like  a  tree  in  a  wide  desert  plain  — 

A  figure  of  mute  despair, 
That  never  can  blossom  again, 

All  branchless,  leafless  and  bare. 
You  would  say  he  never  was  young, 

But  always  sombre  and  cold  : 
From  Winter  and  Ruin  sprung  — 

A  child  born  hoary  and  old. 

Not  a  flower  of  his  springtime  lingers ; 

He  sits  at  his  desk  resigned, 
With  the  rust  of  ink  on  his  fingers  — 

The  mould  of  age  in  his  mind. 

His  ledgers  are  ranged  on  a  shelf. 

In  a  musty,  regular  row. 
As  so  many  parts  of  himself 

Abandoned  under  the  snow. 
A  mournful  history  trace 

On  every  faded  page ; 
From  the  flourish  of  youthful  grace, 

To  signs  of  trembling  age. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I /I 


Not  a  flower  of  his  springtime  lingers; 

He  sits  at  his  desk  resigned. 
With  the  rust  of  ink  on  his  fingers  — 

The  mould  of  age  in  his  mind. 

The  old  clerk  climbed  down  his  ladder-like  stool; 

His  long  day's  work  was  done,  — 
Ledger  and  pen,  rubber  and  rule 

Were  laid  by,  one  by  one. 
He  locked  once  more 
The  office  door. 

And  blessed  the  setting  sun 
He'd  blessed  it  many  a  time  before, 

His  work  day  being  done. 
The  daylight  flashed  o'er  dale  and  hill, 

And  gilt  the  city's  spires  :  — 
One  form  was  cold,  one  heart  was  still, 

Unwarmed  by  morning's  fires. 
The  stool  whereon  the  clerk  grew  gray 

Stood  vacant,  grim,  and  lone ; 
His  spirit  spurned  the  urn  of  clay. 

His  last  day's  work  was  done. 

No  green  for  his  memory  lingers ; 

He  lived  and  died  resigned. 
With  the  rust  of  ink  on  his  fingers  — 

The  mould  of  age  in  his  mind. 


SHOSHONE. 

HIS  song  is  of  the  West. 

The  orient  beam 
^   That  gilds  the  dewy  gateway  of  the  morn 
Discovers  only  fierce  barbarian  hordes 
Crouching  amid  decay  :  —  dark  sentinels 
Who  stand  the  night-watch  of  the  ancient  world. 
The  living  torrent  left  some  stagnant  pools 
Around  the  fountain,  while  the  swelling  tide 
Swept  on  resistless  —  following  the  day. 
Thus  civilization  leads  her  noisy  train 
Westward,  and  ploughs  a  fertile  belt  of  earth, 
For  sustenance ;  and  builds  up  mountain  high 
Her  monuments,  to  crumble  in  their  turn. 
And  still  beyond  are  wide,  untrodden  fields, 
Unfathomed  solitudes,  and  desert  wilds. 
And  more  barbarians  ;  dusky  forest  kings 
Of  narrowing  realms  ;  and  villages  that  flit 
Before  the  plough,  the  anvil,  and  the  loom. 
They  leave  the  earth  unbroken  by  their  tread. 
And  nature's  face,  untarnished  by  their  touch. 
And  heaven's  clear  air  untainted  by  their  breath 
These  untamed  wanderers.     God's  work  remains 
As  moulded  by  the  great  creative  Hand  — 
Of  all  His  world  the  purest  in  the  West. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1/3 


Now  let  us  venture  past  the  scattered  van 

Of  Empire's  army  ;  past  the  pioneer 

Who  guards  the  border ;  past  old  hunting  grounds 

Deserted  by  both  hunter  and  his  game  ; 

Beyond  the  hills  that  gird  the  Mormon  valley; 

To  the  far,  trackless  wilds  of  Idaho, 

Where  the  sun  shines  the  brightest  on  our  land,' 

And  burnishes  the  earth  with  sands  of  gold. 

Pause,  and  view  Nature  in  her  morning  robes  — 

As  fresh  and  fair  as  when  she  put  them  on 

To  welcome  life  around  these  mountain  shrines 

Here,  a  swpet  river  wanders  to  the  West  — 

Its  current  dimpled,  deep  and  crystal  clear. 

Glides  calmly,  smoothly  in  its  dreamless  rest 

Wrapped  in  the  glossy  mantle  of  the  sky. 

Behold  a  change  !  —  as  when  an  avalanche 

Leaps   down    the   highest   Alps,   and    drowns    the 

vale. 
The  sleeping  waters  startled  from  their  bed 
Rush  o'er  a  chasm's  brink  with  wail  and  crash , 
What  time  the  trumpet  Canon's  echoing  horn 
The  deafening  blast  prolongs.     Listening  afar. 
Old  Druid  mountains  nod  their  snowy  heads 
With    grave    applause.     Near,    eagles   nurse    their 

young 
Rocked  by  the  surges,  —  dripping  with  the  spray. 


174 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


From  nature's  loom  descends  the  silver  sheet 

Endless,  inwove  with  every  sunlight  tint 

And  fringed  with  feathery  foam.     The  maddened 

tide, 
Full  fifty  fathoms,  thunders  down  th'  abyss, 
Then  steepy  shores  the  angry  waters  guide  — 
A  rapid  river  dashing  towards  the  sea. 

We  call  the  marvellous  cataract  Shoshone  — 
Wild  as  its  savage  name.     The  jewelled  queen 
Of  torrents,  throned  in  misty  solitude. 
Reigns  not  alone  in  grandeur.     Kindred  springs 
Mould  kindred  features  in  the  veins  of  earth. 
Thrice  do  the  foaming  waters  surge  and  plunge : 
They  hang  'mid  folds  of  shadowy  clouds  on  high  ; 
Then  dash  in  clouds  of  diamond  mist  below, 
And  rainbows  arch  them  in  the  middle  sky. 


The  cloistered  genius  of  the  wilderness 

Holds  converse  with  the  spirit  of  the  flood  — 

Endowed  with  life,  and  language  eloquent. 

I,  too,  would  speak  with  thee,  whose  playful  hand 

Pours  streaming  silver  down  the  mountain  side, 

From   earth's  exhaustless  urn ;   whose  deep  voice 

rang 
For  prayer  in  Nature's  high  cathedral  dome, 
To  glorify  the  young  creation's  birth. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1/5 


Who  art  thou,  Shoshone  ?     Dread  soHtudes 
Appalled  thine  infancy  and  nurse  thy  age. 
The  roving  spirit  of  an  Indian  King 
Disturbed  thy  bosom  and  impelled  thy  steps 
Towards  shining  peaks  that  lured  thee  from  afar 
To  that  fell  plunge ;  and  thy  untrammelled  youth 
With  pride  and  daring  sought  the  sunset  clime. 
And  fields  of  glory  in  the  unlocked  wilds 
Reveal  thy  mystery !     Come  forth  and  speak 
Of  periods  that  have  flown  like  shadows  o'er  thee. 
One  word  would  fall  a  plummet  in  the  void 
Of  circling  cycles,  and  unpeopled  realms. 
All,  all  is  silent,  save  the  ceaseless  wail 
Of  headlong  torrents  on  the  desert  air. 
That  wail  was  silence  through  long  ages  past. 
Where  no  ear  is,  the  hollow  waves  of  sound 
Float  meaningless,  on  seas  of  nothingness. 
So  Time  is  not,  but  in  recorded  hours 
Struck  from  the  vacuum  of  Eternity. 

Since  men  have  sought  the  desert  for  its  sands 
Thy  regal  pomp  has  fallen.     Thy  retinue 
Affrighted  fled  :   Thou'rt  sitting  in  the  sun. 
Thy  white  beard  streaming,  and  thy  shaggy  locks 
All  misty  with  the  gray  of  centuries  — 
Abandoned  monarch  on  a  liquid  throne. 
The  crown  of  sunbeams  wreathed  upon  thy  brow 
Conceals  the  furrowed  scars  of  rifting  time. 


1/6  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Thine  eyes  with  starry  lustre  glow.     Thy  breast 

Heaves  with  the  joy  of  immortality. 

Thy  mantle  of  ethereal  fabric  glows, 

With  change  eternal,  studded  o'er  with  gems. 

And  like  a  live  cloud  rolls  around  thy  form 

In  skyey  convolutions  :  such  thy  state  — 

And  such  thy  home  impaled  by  frosty  peaks. 

Thy  flood,  Shoshone,  typifies  a  race 

Peaceful  and  tranquil,  till  its  fall  and  flight  — 

Yet  still  unconquered  —  ever  roving  free. 

And  never  chained  to  toil.     The  white  man's  face 

Warns  thee  of  bridges,  cities,  throngs  of  men 

To  ravage  thy  domain.     Thine  age  untamed  — 

Transfixed  upon  that  dire  Promethean  rock  — 

Is  not  exempt  from  chains.     Thy  pride  may  bend 

To  millions  that  will  swarm  to  mock  thy  power,  — 

His  fate  who  carried  Gaza's  gates  of  old. 


ZELDA. 

^^^ER  lone  heart  mused,  her  sad  face  smiled ; 

She  seemed  a  frail,  foiid,  earnest  child. 

Her    eyes    were    large    and   strange   and 
deep  — 

Eyes  one  would  think  could  never  sleep  — 
Wild  orbs  that  flashed  an  inner  light ! 
Which  pierced  the  film  of  outward  sight, 
As  lightning  rends  the  veil  of  night. 
A  power  of  vision  some  inherit 
To  see  at  once  both  form  and  spirit, 
And  rapturous  visions  oft  beguiled 
The  spirit  of  the  artist  child. 
And  lured  her  where  old  temples  stand 
In  some  far  distant  sunny  land. 

An  infant  wonder  Zelda  grew 
To  all  who  saw  her —  all  who  knew. 
She  left  her  young  companions'  games 
For  higher  walks  and  nobler  aims. 
They  missed  her  answers  in  the  class, 
And  sought  her  'mid  the  flowers  and  grass, 
Or  where  the  streamlet  softly  purled, 
And  sang  of  nature's  inner  world ; 


1/8  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Half  conscious  only  —  half  in  dream 
Her  fancy  floated  down  the  stream. 
And  soon  the  ocean  rolled  in  view  — 
That  mystery  of  arching  blue  ! 
She  saw  the  heavens  darkly  frown 
O'er  deeps  where  stately  ships  go  down  ; 
Beyond  the  gulf  of  rocks  and  gales    . 
She  marked  the  gently  wafted  sails, 
And  still  beyond  she  traced  the  strand 
That  girt  around  the  sunny  land. 

Sweet  Zelda  bloomed  as  wild  flower  blows, 
Bright  as  the  rarest  mountain  rose. 
The  wise  reproved,  the  thoughtless  smiled, 
And  passed  the  idle,  dreaming  child. 
While  lessons  taught  by  mighty  Art 
Were  bursting  then  her  burdened  heart. 
She  scorned  the  curb  of  form's  control, 
And  nursed  the  spirit  in  her  soul ; 
Till  fair  upon  the  canvas  grew 
The  outlines  of  the  truths  she  knew. 
Soon  deepening  touches  there  revealed 
•     That  she  had  Nature's  book  unsealed  — 
And  fead !     Her  trembling  pencil  traced 
Studies  and  themes,  as  oft  effaced ; 
Then  bolder  flashed  the  living  light, 
And  truth,  the  charmer,  filled  the  sight. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 79 


So  Zelda  painted.     Art  to  her 
Was  God's  most  sinless  worshipper ; 
Sainted  and  stainless  from  its  birth, 
A  type  of  all  that's  pure  on  earth ; 
Interpreter  of  language,  given 
To  smooth  the  rugged  path  to  heaven. 
High  Art!  Holy  God-like  power 
To  live  an  age  in  one  short  hour. 

Thus  Zelda  lived  from  all  apart. 

She  toiled,  and  toiled  alone  with  art ; 

Neglect  and  ruin  in  its  wake 

Bruised  her  young  heart,  but  could  not  break ; 

Her  faith  was  strong,  though  hope's  dim  star 

Could  barely  cast  its  beams  so  far 

To  light  her  yet  unheeded  name 

From  dark  obscurity  to  fame ; 

The  dim  star  glimmered  o'er  the  strand 

That  poets  sing  —  the  sunny  land. 

And  soon  the  happy  west  winds  blow 

And  Zelda  sails  in  morning  glow. 

When  bounding  o'er  the  billows  free, 

She  knew  her  young  dream  of  the  sea; 

Wherein  she  seemed  a  child  no  more, 

And  courted  breakers,  waves  and  roar. 

The  prescient  vision  told  her  life  — 

Her  heart  was  armed  for  nobler  strife. 


l80  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  light  shone  brighter  o'er  her  home 
Among  the  masters  of  old  Rome. 
The  great  of  earth,  who  stand  sublime, 
Defiant  of  the  storms  of  time. 
As  brothers  loved,  as  masters  taught. 
Supreme  in  highest  realms  of  thought, 
Their  stone  and  canvas  breathe  for  aye  ! 
They  live  —  true  art  can  never  die. 
'Mid  fortune's  frowns,  and  pain,  and  strife 
The  brave  young  girl  toiled  on  for  life ; 
Not  life  which  fades  with  fleeting  breath. 
But  vital  power  which  conquers  death. 

Where  cottages  are  scattered  thin. 
Beyond  the  city's  dust  and  din, 
Fair  Zelda  plied  her  busy  hand, 
And  fairer  grew  the  sunny  land. 
Within  her  studio  rapt  she  stood. 
Her  great  ambition  at  its  flood  ; 
Palette  and  pencil  laid  aside. 
She  viewed  a  recent  touch  with  pride  ; 
Ecstatic  hope  wore  no  disguise. 
She  struggled  for  a  nation's  prize : 
A  royal  tribute,  set  apart 
To  grace  the  roll  of  modern  art. 
Her  wild  emotions  who  can  know? 
What  art  can  paint  her  features'  glow. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  151 


As  thoughts  tumultuous  ebb  and  flow? 
With  genius  flashing  from  the  walls, 
Hope  crowned  her  queen  in  stately  halls ; 
The  central  mark  of  wondering  eyes  — 
The  artist  girl  who  won  the  prize. 

• 
A  throng  besieged  the  palace  gates 

Where  artists,  trembling,  wooed  the  Fates. 
Zelda  stood  there  —  unnoticed,. lone. 
Great  in  herself,  but  still  unknown. 
A  rush  —  a  thousand  voices*  din 
Hummed  like  a  distant  storm  within. 
"The  prize  !  "'  rang  out  above  the  roar , 
Zelda  beheld  and  heard  no  more  ! 
Her  name  was  voiced  from  ground  to  dome. 
And  borne  aloft  to  Mother  Rome. 
Her  picture  won  ;  the  crowd  around 
Trod  softly,  as  on  hallowed  ground. 
Now  came  a  painful,  breathless  pause  — 
Then  burst  the  thunders  of  applause. 
So  Zelda  triumphed  —  alien  born  — 
'Gainst  rival  plots  and  petty  scorn. 
None  questioned  age,  or  sex,  or  birth  — 
Such  art  belongs  to  all  the  earth. 
Where'er  she  moved  she  heard  her  name 
In  tones  of  love  —  and  this  was  fame. 
A  whispered  hush  f     The  boisterous  glee 
Grew  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 


1 82         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

The  throng  moved  wide  on  either  hand, 
Awed  by  the  symbol  of  command. 
A  lady  of  the  land  stood  there, 
Whose  stately  mien  and  queenly  air 
Proclaimed  an  empress,  pure  and  good, 
A  type  of  noble  womanhood. 

"  Zelda  !  "  she  called  —  that  magic  name 
Rang  through  the  hall ;  the  artist  came. 
And  Zelda  knew  her  royal  guest, 
And  sobbed  aloud  upon  her  breast. 
The  artist  and  the  queen  were  bound 
By  nature's  bond  on  equal  ground ; 
The  might  of  genius  towered  elate, 

.  Nor  bowed  before  the  regal  state ; 
The-  trusting  girl  dismissed  her  fears. 
The  Queen  dissolved  in  Woman's  tears. 
The  tender  greeting  o'er  —  behold 
On  Zelda's  neck  a  cross  of  gold. 


SONGS   OF  THE    DAWN, 


IS  morning,  and  the  rising  day 
Has  donned  his  frosty  robe  of  gray ; 
The  stars  —  bright  sentries  of  the  skies 
Blink  at  the  dawn  with  drowsy  eyes, 
Then  one  by  one  their  exit  make, 
And  vanish  when  the  world's  awake. 
Awake  !  yet  midnight's  deepest  gloom 
Still  hovers  in  the  darkened  room. 
Ye  sleepers !  hear  the  vocal  swells 
Sung  to  the  chime  of  matin  bells ; 
They  come  from  Labor's  gleeful  band, 
The  native  minstrels  of  the  land. 
Birds,  in  their  songs,  from  hedge  and  tree, 
Chant  Nature's  wild  excess  of  glee ; 
In  turn,  their  merry  notes  tune  man, 
And  then  he  sings  —  because  he  can. 

The  earth's  a  business  place;  its  throngs 
Beguile  their  toil  with  cheerful  songs. 
The  World's  reflector  is  the  Press, 
Which  gleams  like  day  in  morning  dress. 
And  casts  its  radiance  in  the  gloom 
Of  many  a  darkly  curtained  room. 


184  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

The  slothful,  while  supine  they  lie, 
Shut  in  from  light,  and  air,  and  sky, 
May  gather  from  the  newsboy's  song 
How  fast  Time's  current  sweeps  along. 

^       "  We  come  like  heralds  of  the  morn. 
Nor  value  praise,  nor  care  for  scorn  ! 
We  come  from  many  a  tottering  shed, 
With  scarce  a  blanket  for  a  bed. 
Our  chinky  roofs  admit  the  light, 
By  which  we  count  the  hours  of  night. 
As  star-beams  through  the  rafters  stray, 
Until  we  hail  the  break  of*  day. 
Soon  cries  of  *  Morning  Papers '  pour 
An  earnest  plaint  at  every  door; 
And  upper  windows,  here  and  there. 
Are  raised,  admitting  light  and  air. 
And  thus  we  wander  up  and  down 
Until  we  'rouse  the  sleeping  town." 

The  farm-yard  minstrel  chanticleer  — 
Lord  of  the  roost  for  many  a  year  — 
Rings  out  the  morning's  loud  alarm. 
And  wakens  up  the  drowsy  farm. 
The  plow-boy  bounds  upon  the  lawn. 
And  yokes  his  team  at  early  dawn ; 
He  plows  and  sows  the  fallow  field. 
Expectant  of  the  harvest's  yield ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 85 


While  furrow  deep  he  plods  along, 
He  sings  his  happy  morning  song : 

"  We  sturdy  sons  of  honest  toil, 
Who  guide  the  plow  and  till  the  soil, 
Secure  the  brightest  bloom  of  health. 
And  open  all  the  springs  of  wealth. 

"  The  stream  which  turns  the  busy  mill 
First  ripples  in  a  mountain  rill ; 
We  trace  the  current  to  its  birth, 
And  find  it  trickling  from  the.  earth. 

"  From  earth  we  draw  the  golden  store 
Of  fruit,  and  grain,  and  shining  ore ; 
Ours  are  the  springs ;  we  drink  our  fill 
And  thrive  beside  the  sparkling  rill. 

"  And  as  the  stream,  meandering  free. 
Pays  tribute  to  the  swallowing  sea, 
So  we  to  hungry  cities  yield 
The  riches  of  the  mine  and  field. 

**  No  treasure  of  the  earth  is  found 
By  lofty  flights  above  the  ground ; 
Star-gazing  swains  their  fortunes  mar 
Who  do  not  court  the  Morning  Star." 


1 86  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

At  early  dawn,  upon  the  glade 
Trips  forth  the  rosy  dairy-maid. 
Her  form  is  lithe,  her  face  is  bright, 
Revealed  in  mellow,  misty  light. 

Aurora's  self  is  not  more  sweet, 
With  dew-beads  on  her  naked  feet, 
Than  is  the  simple  country  girl 
With  eyes  of  blue  and  teeth  of  pearl, 
And  cherry  lips,  whence  issue  wreaths 
Of  perfumed  mist,  that  morning  breathes ; 
Which,  curling  'mong  her  tresses  brown. 
Half  veil  her  homespun  rustic  gown. 
The  marble  whiteness  of  her  arms 
Suggests  a  wealth  of  hidden  charms 
Brighter  than  painters'  art  e'er  taught. 
Rounder  than  ever  chisel  wrought. 
Now  hear  the  maiden,  fresh  and  hale, 
Sweet  warbling  o'er  her  milking  pail: 

"A  country  girl  I'm  proud  to  be; 
The  country  is  the  home  for  me  ! 
A  reigning  belle  I  would  not  live 
For  all  the  power  the  world  can  give. 
Oh,  tell  me  not  of  masques  and  balls. 
The  paint  and  glare  of  gilded  halls  ! 
But  give  me  slumber's  boon  at  night, 
And  let  me  rise  with  morning  light. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 8/ 


A  country  girl  I'm  proud  to  be ; 
The  country  is  the  home  for  me ! 

**  Give  me  the  strains  of  morning  birds ; 
The  bugle  notes  of  lowing  herds  ; 
And  let  me  quaff  the  sparkling  wine 
Drawn  foaming  from  the  generous  kine. 
I  would  not  waste  my  life  away, 
To  crown  the  night,  by  robbing  day. 
For  all  the  gold  and  all  the  gems 
Of  monarchs  and  their  diadems. 
A  country  girl  I'm  proud  to  be  ; 
The  country  is  the  home  for  me  !  " 

The  city  sounds  and  songs  float  o'er  us, 
In  deep  and  never  ending  chorus; 
The  human  maelstrom  never  sleeps. 
But  ebbs  and  flows  as  ocean's  deeps. 
The  night  of  pleasure  drowses  on 
Till  startled  by  the  rising  dawn ; 
Its  sickly  lights  fade  one  by  one. 
As  stars  go  out  before  the  sun. 
Lone  Riot  sinks,  and  hears  its  knell 
In  huckster's  horn  and  milkman's  bell  — 
The  echoes  of  those  voices  warm 
Which  float  in  from  the  far-off  farm. 
How  little  do  ye  know  who  sleep 
Of  vigils  that  the  lowly  keep. 


i88 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


Who  rise  betimes  each  working  day 
To  drive  starvation's  wolf  away. 
Ye  view  existence  through  the  haze 
That  curtains  all  your  yesterdays ; 
Ye  shine  with  night's  reflected  beams, 
And  languish  in  a  land  of  dreams. 


SALLIE  BROWN. 


E  live  at  home  —  plain,  homely  folks  - 

And  let  the  world  run  riot. 
Our  family  jars  o'erflow  with  jokes  — 
Our  quarrels  e'en  are  quiet. 

We  have  an  infant  band  of  three, 

All  innocent  and  sweet ; 
Who  chatter  all  in  harmony 

With  little  pattering  feet. 

This  stream  of  twilight  music  fills 

Our  measure  of  desire, 
When  pouring  forth  its  artless  trills 

Around  the  evening  fire. 

We've  trouble,  too,  o'er  which  we  muse, 

But  do  not  tell  the  town  ; 
Our  kitchen  teems  with  broils  and  stews  — 

Dished  up  by  Sallie  Brown. 

Without  more  preface  to  begin  ;  — 

Who  may  be  Sallie  Brown  ? 
A  servant  girl,  we  took  her  in, 

And  soon  she  took  us  down. 


IQO  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

She  entered  by  the  alley  gate 

One  night  at  nine  or  later  ; 
We  did  not  find  until  too  late 

We'd  caught  an  alligator, 

'Twas  winter  time,  and  bitter  cold ; 

We  hired  her  as  we  thought ; 
We  felt  so  cheap  w'hen  we  were  sold 

And  she  so  dearly  bought. 

She  did  not  suit  —  we  missed  some  spoons, 

And  other  pantry  ware  : 
I  lost  my  only  pantaloons, 

Which  left  my  wardrobe  bare, 

I  let  them  go  without  a  fuss, 

And  played  philosopher : 
Our  girl  no  more  belonged  to  us, 

But  we  belonged  to  her. 

Beneath  her  spreading  crinoline  — 

No  matter  what  she  wore ; 
Those  pantaloons  so  fitly  mine  — 

I  never  saw  them  more. 

We  paid  her  off —  yet  still  she  stayed  — 
Staid  girl  —  from  heel  to  crown  : 

An  all-time-serving  servant  maid 
Was  our  dear  SalHe  Brown. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I9I 


The  kitchen  claimed  her  sex  and  age 

And  other  qualifications ; 
But  woman's  rights  were  now  the  rage, 

And  manly  aspirations. 

Stuffed  in  among  the  pots  and  pans 

Were  yellow  covered  novels  — 
All  mouldy  with  the  stale  romance 

Of  ladies  born  in  hovels. 

We  had  one  hungry  Christmas  day,  — 

Her  last  of  kitchen  duty, 
Before  she  threw  herself  away. 

To  find  herself  a  beauty. 

That  day  her  conduct  raised  our  ire ; 

The  sky  was  dark  and  murky : 
Her  lovers  gossiped  'round  the  fire. 

And  gobbled  up  our  turkey. 

They  drank  our  wine  —  with  thirst  increased 

By  pastry,  sweets  and  jam  : 
They  had  no  scruples  o'er  the  feast. 

But  closed  it  with  a  dram. 

I  raved  as  mildly  as  I  could 

I'm  not  a  family  snarler ; 
But  hinted  in  a  tone  subdued, 

"  She'd  better  take  the  parlor." 


192  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

She  took'it  —  I  could  not  object 

'Tis  rude  to  be  uncivil : 
I  bowed  her  in  with  mock  respect, 

And  wished  her  to  the  devil. 

I  did  not  moan,  nor  sigh,  nor  curse, 

I  did  not  even  frown ; 
For  many  a  home  bears  foibles  worse 

Than  those  of  Sallie  Brown. 

A  joke's  a  joke,  while  all  agree 
To  bear  its  point  with  patience ; 

Our  servant  gave  it  out  that  we 
Were  only  poor  relations. 

This  cruel  thrust,  we  passed  it  by  — 
'Tis  so  unkind  to  quarrel ; 

The  steel  that  flashes  in  a  lie 
Will  also  point  a  moral. 

In  time  we  e'en  enjoyed  the  joke, 

So  truthful  was  its  ring  ; 
It  might  be  true  of  other  folk. 

And  laughter  healed  the  sting. 

Our  servant  rules,  and  holds  the  keys. 
To  all  our  household  store; 

She'll  fit  the  station  by  degrees, 
As  some  have  done  before. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  I93 


I  took  a  city  car  one  day, 

Used  up  and  tired  down ; 
But  soon  I  gave  my  seat  away  — 

To  whom  ?     Why,  Sallie  Brown. 

The  people's  servants,  clerks  and  clowns 

Who  rule  the  present  hour 
Are  just  so  many  "  Sallie  Browns  " 

Usurping  place  and  power. 

We  grieve  to  see  their  shameless  tricks 

In  days  so  dark  and  murky ; 
They  wait  the  people's  cuffs  and  kicks 

For  eating  up  the  turkey. 

The  moral  of  the  story's  told  ; 

The  world  is  running  riot ; 
And  better  far  than  power  or  gold. 

Is  plain  domestic  quiet. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  A  LEAF. 


•E  sat  and  talked  together  where 
Magnolias  were  in  bloom  ; 
She  had  their  blossoms  in  her  hair. 
But  in  her  features  gloom. 
For  I  would  start  for  other  lands 

Before  to-morrow's  shine  ; 
At  parting  I  held  both  her  hands 
And  asked  her  to  be  mine. 


She  took  a  bright  magnolia  leaf 

Which  flowers  were  nestling  in, 
And  on  it,  while  she  hid  her  grief, 

She  wrote  with  golden  pin. 
Then  handing  me  the  leaf,  she  said : 

"  Preserve  this  page  with  care. 
And  meet  me  living,  mourn  me  dead. 

My  answer's  written  there. 


**  'Tis  said  such  writing  as  I've  done 
Upon  the  leaf's  smooth  green 

Will,  after  weeks  or  months  have  gone, 
Unfold  its  filmy  sheen, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  1 95 


And  when  the  leaf  is  brown  and  sere. 
And  pictures  woe  and  blight. 

The  letter  tracings  will  appear 
In  lines  of  living  light.'* 

The  pin  upon  her  bosom  glowed 

When  last  I  held  her  hand ; 
The  blank  green  leaf  no  message  showed 

My  heart  could  understand. 
Yet,  handing  me  the  leaf,  she  said : 

"  Preserve  this  page  with  care. 
And  meet  me  living,  mourn  me  dead. 

My  answer's  written  there." 

I  journeyed  far  to  other  lands. 

But  met  no  change  of  scene. 
For  all  the  world  was  desert  sands. 

With  one  far  spot  of  green, 
And  weeks  and  weary  months  had  gone ; 

The  treasured  leaf  each  day 
I  questioned,  dreamed  and  mused  upon, 

But  it  had  naught  to  say. 

It  was  a  trick  by  woman  planned 

To  soothe  the  parting  grief. 
And  now  I  know  her  lily  hand 

Wrote  nothing  on  the  leaf. 


196  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

I  did  not  have  her  word  to  thank 

For  deaHng  me  this  blow, 
Yet  on  the  fading  page's  blank 

Was  plainly  written  "  No  !  " 

And  then  I  hid  it  from  my  sight, 

And  journeyed  on  and  on. 
Until  I  plunged  in  polar  night, 

And  all  the  green  was  gone. 
And  once  I  dreamed  she  came  and  said  : 

"  Preserve  the  page  with  care. 
And  meet  me  living,  mourn  me  dead. 

My  answer's  written  there." 

I  saw  her  plain  as  ever  stood 

A  thing  of  mortal  mould. 
While  throbbed  on  breathing  flesh  and  blood 

Her  bosom's  star  of  gold. 
I  grasped  the  faded  leaf  and  read  — 

The  letters  seemed  divine  — 
"  Shouldst  meet  me  living,  mourn  n^e  dead 

Forever  I  am  thine." 

I  hastened  through  the  northern  night, 

I  crossed  the  desert's  sand. 
And  bright  one  morning  dawned  the  light 

Of  dear  Magnolia  Land. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  IQ/ 


There  had  been  pestilence  and  war, 

And  ruin  seemed  to  be.  *  . 

I  saw  a  little  golden  star 
On  our  magnolia  tree. 

With  trembling  hand  and  loving  care, 

.  And  troubled  thought  within, 
I  took  a  paper  folded  there 

And  pinned  with  golden  pin. 
And  'neath  the  whispering  leaves  I  read 

The  same  words  line  for  line : 
"  Shouldst  meet  me  living,  mourn  me  dead, 

Forever  I  am  thine.'* 

And  still  another  word  was  there, 

For  constancy  alone. 
Which  raised  my  heart  from  low  despair 

When  every  hope  had  flown. 
My  southern  bird  had  taken  flight 

Before  the  storm  that  fell ; 
Had  winged  her  passage  through  the  night 

And  left  that  note  to  tell. 

And  then  I  felt  a  .sweet  rehef, 
While  fiercer  longings  burned. 

I  sent  her  my  magnolia  leaf 
To  tell  I  had  returned, 


198  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE   MUSES. 

But  followed  it  with  fluttering  haste 
No  more  from  her  I'll  roam, 

For  we  are  building  in  the  waste 
The  old  magnolia  home. 


ENDOWMENT. 


r.ifFi  HERE  was  a  meeting,  late  one  summer  night, 
g  Among  the  clouds  on  dim  Olympus'  height  — 
A  gathering  of  the  Gods  of  Grecian  story, 
In  moonshine  shimmer  of  their  olden  glory. 
Celestial  types  of  Hellenic  renown  ; 
And  all  were  present,  from  the  Thunderer  down. 

Grave  matter,  doubtless — war  or  want  or  wrong; 
Whatever's  up  —  fit  subject  for  a  song. 
Where's  a  reporter  with  a  classic  head 
To  take  it  down  ?     The  Ancients  are  all  dead. 

Time  was  when  poets  only  could  report 

Olympian  councils  of  this  sacred  sort. 

But  circumvent  or  circumscribe  who  can 

A  nineteenth  century  newspaper  man. 

In  Protean  brain  and  adamantine  cheek 

Our  bold  Bohemian  beats  the  ancient  Greek. 

To  head  off  dead-heads,  squeeze  out  sponging  bores. 

This  secret  conclave  sat  with  guarded  doors ; 

Yet,  with  their  eyes  alert  and  wits  about. 

They  could  not  keep  "our  correspondent"  out. 


200  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

A  rising  wind  is  told  by  drifting  straws, 

And  frowning  brows  portend  a  stormy  cause. 

But  here  came  bright  eyes  —  beauties  wreathed  with 

smiles  — 
The  fair  immortals,  sweet  with  woman's  wiles. 

It  was  not  battle's  victories  or  defeats, 
.  For  Mars  and  stern  Minerva  took  back  seats. 
No  first-class  deity  appeared  to  know 
The  reason  why  they  were  assembled  so. 
Nymphs,  Naiads,  Fauns  of  hill  and  stream  and  grove 
All  marveled  much  why  they  were  called  —  by  Jove  ! 
They  sat  like  audience  in  a  theatre 
Awaiting  some  new  wonder  to  appear. 

Transfer  the  scene  to  more  familiar  light ; 
Suppose  a  play-house  on  that  mountain  height; 
And  here  we  are  —  gods,  goddesses  and  all  — 
In  due  obedience  to  some  sovereign  call ; 
And  dead-heads  too  —  deny  it  if  you  can, 
And  that  ubiquitous  newspaper  man. 

The  scene  is  changed.     The  people  here  decree, 

And  their  one  voice  is  law  of  Deity. 

Who  speaks?     The  tones  come  thrilling  from  the 

crowd  — 
The  speaker  hidden  as  behind  a  cloud : 
"  'Tis  rumored  here,  these  modern  pigmy  clods 


MISCELLANEOUS.  201 


Imagine  they  can  do  without  the  gods. 
Deluded  mortals,  we  befriend  them  still, 
And  make  our  favorites  great  against  their  will. 
Say  Barbarism's  past !  .  Arc  we  despised  ? 
Our  care  be  now  to  keep  men  civilized. 
Say  War  is  over !     Shall  our  counsel  cease  ? 
They  need  it  more  to  foster  arts  of  peace. 
And  Peace  it  is ;  and  joy  now  fills  our  hearts 
In  place  of  jealous  rage  and  wrangling  smarts; 
Come  forth  and  reign,  ye  guardians  of  the  arts." 

Who's  this  replies  ?     Melpomene,  tearful  muse ! 
What  god  or  mortal  could  her  plaint  refuse  ?        v 
"  We  feel  a  want  to  fill  the  mimic  scene, 
A  young,  endowed,  star-shining,  tragic  queen  ; 
One  who  can  weather  Life's  tempestuous  flood  — 
Embodiment  of  Passion's  flesh  and  blood ; 
A  woman  who  can  feel  all  mortal  pains  — 
A  harp  attuned  to  Nature's  wailing  strains  — 
This  is  our  want — to  show  how  brief  the  bloom. 
And  that  the  world  is  modeled  for  a  tomb." 

Thalia  claims  a  hearing  next  in  order, 

And  trusts  the  crowd  an  audience  will  accord  her. 

Accorded :  thus  the  merry  muse  replies : 

"  Now  let  our  weeping  sister  dry  her  eyes ; 

Wet  spoils  her  beauty  —  keep  an  onion  near  — 

Good  to  distil  the  sympathetic  tear. 


202  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Life  has  enough  sad  sorrows  of  its  own, 

Without  grief's  masquerade  and  mimic  moan; 

Why  should  mankind  their  noble  powers  enslave, 

And  mope  by  moonlight  round  an  open  grave  ? 

Let's  show  them  how  to  live  in  shining  day, 

And  not  in  shadows  drone  their  lives  away. 

Why  not  bring   down   the   house   with  mirth  and 

laughter, 
And  shake  its  lazy  sides  from  floor  to  rafter  ? 
Present  to  men  the  funny  face  of  Folly, 
And  over  their  pet  foibles  make  them  jolly. 
We  want  a  change  of  bill  —  a  happier  scene  — 
For  Horror's  head,  a  radiant,  laughing  Queen. 
"  Professional  spite  !  "    The  deep-toned  voice  replies ; 
"Ladies,  you're  jealous;  come  now,  harmonize." 
They  stand  together,  beaming  rival  graces. 
With  just  a  shade  of  anger  on  their  faces. 
Each  plays  her  queenly  part  with  flashing  eyes. 
While  round  the  circle  murmurs  "  harmonize." 
"We  take  our  stand  for  classic  art,"  says  one; 
Rejoins  the  other :     "  We  go  in  for  fun. 
We  think  it  our  high  mission  to  amuse  — 
Not  play  on  keen  emotions  to  abuse ; 
High  Tragedy,  we  grant,  is  art's  devotional ; 
But  what's  that  tragic  palsy,  the  emotional. 
By   which    youth's    bloom    gets    hopelessly    stage- 
struck. 
And  in  the  quicksands  of  perdition  stuck  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS.  2O3 


Why,  every  school-girl  Juliet's  heart  is  set 
On  early  death  and  tomb  of  Capulet. 
If  suicide  goes  on  at  such  a  pace, 
Your  tragedy  will  stop  the  human  race." 

Again  that  voice  :     "  To  have  these  quarrels  done, 

A  miracle  shall  blend  you  both  in  one. 

We  want  a  woman  of  impassioned  soul 

And  body  joined  to  play  your  dual  role  ; 

We  shall  endow  her  with  a  force  and  mind 

For  tragic  power  and  comic  grace  combined  ; 

A  Siddons,  Rachel,  Cushman  —  artists  true. 

And  what  we  lost  in  lovely  Neilson,  too. 

Of  all  our  good  gifts,  we  bestow  our  best 

On  the  fresh  genius  of  the  New  World  West. 

The  name  precise  is  not  selected  yet. 

Perhaps  'tis  Mary  —  maybe  Margaret. 

'  What's  in  a  name  ? '     And  really,  what's  the  odds, 

Since  prophecy  is  guess-work  of  the  gods  ?  " 

And  bursting  in  the  ferment  of  the  crowd. 

As  from  the  billowy  bosom  of  a  cloud, 

Comes  like  a  peal  of  thunder:     "  She's  endowed  !  " 

Some  say  with  genius  ;  inspiration,  some ; 
Many  are  called,  but  few  there  be  who  come. 
All  start  upon  life's  race-course  fresh  and  gay  ; 
Those  run  ahead  who  hardest  work  their  way. 


THE  SHORELESS  SEA. 


^BOVE  the  world,  beneath,  around, 
11^       Forever  rolls  a  shoreless  sea  ; 
JA^^  Unknown,  save  by  the  low,  profound, 
Weird  murmur  of  infinity. 

Reason  is  bHnd  !     Amid  the  gloom 
Which  shrouds  the  silent,  heaving  deep, 

Her  feeble  light  can  ne'er  illume 
The  chambers  of  eternal  sleep. 

Wouldst  thou  the  mystic  veil  withdraw. 

Which  screens  the  Living  Throne  from  man ; 

And  trace  the  cause  beyond  the  law. 
Which  was  before  the  world  began  ? 

The  earth  and  all  it  holds  is  thine ; 

The  growth  on  valley,  plain,  and  hill, 
Thou  hast  the  air,  the  sea,  the  mine, 

And  fire  to  mould  them  to  thy  will. 

Trace  if  thou  canst,  the  fountain's  source ; 

The  drops  which  swell  the  sparkling  tide. 
Slow  trickling  in  their  mid-earth  course. 

Bewilder,  while  they  seem  to  guide. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  205 


Explore  the  heavens  with  eye  intent, 
Catch  every  golden  gleam  from  far ; 

And  search  the  arching  firmament, 
From  sun  to  telescopic  star. 

Allay  thy  thirst  at  Learning's  fount : 
Examine  strata  —  break  the  clod ; 

Then  let  thy  soaring  vision  mount, 
And  view  the  shining  tracks  of  God. 

Thou  canst  not  sound  the  Shoreless  Sea ; 

Unfathomed  by  the  plummet,  Time  : 
Where  life,  through  all  eternity 

Has  circled  round  its  source  sublime. 

Day  gleams  beyond  thy  straining  look ; 

Thy  soul  in  blinding  darkness  grieves  : 
God  closes  his  Eternal  book. 

And  thought  lies  crushed  between  the  leaves. 

Vain  mortal !     Turn  within  thyself-^— 
Thou  fountain  of  mysterious  force, 

Which  springs  for  honor,  power  or  pelf; 
And  trace  the  drops  which  shape  thy  course  ! 

'Tis  easy :  life  is  born  of  Life, 

As  fountains  spring  from  mist  and  rain  ; 

It  journeys  through' its  term  of  strife. 
And  circles  to  its  source  again. 


206  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

From  Oceans'  depths  the  mists  arise  : 
They  fall,  and  sink  in  Mother  Earth  : 

Then  seek  again  the  parent  skies, 
And  spring  renewed  in  second  birth. 

Through  Nature's  mazy  crypts  profound, 
Thy  search  for  light  will  fruitless  be  : 

Life's  stream  is  thine  above  the  ground, 
While  dashing  towards  the  Shoreless  Sea. 

Thou  soul  akin  to  heavenly  light. 

Whom  blazing  orbs  impelled  to  soar : 

Thy  thoughts  like  stars  aflame  by  night. 
In  darkness  spend  their  borrowed  store. 

If,  from  the  highest  peak  of  fame, 
Immortal  genius  sound  thy  worth ; 

Soon,  men  will  read  an  unknown  name 
Upon  thy  little  mound  of  earth. 

Time's  torrent  dashes,  swift  and  strong, 
And  ever  towards  the  Shoreless  Sea  : 

And  in  its  drift  we  sweep  along  — 
The  sailors  of  Eternity. 


IS^A^S?^ 


CHIMNEY   GHOST. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


IV^/ 


CHIMNEY  by  the  roadside  stands 


^\\t       With  blighted  creepers  hung ; 
Around  it  whirl  the  sifted  sands 
From  traveled  highway  flung, 
It  towers,  and  glooms,  and  hush  commands ; 
And  speaks  with  stony  arms  and  hands, 
In  lieu  of  tongue. 

A  figure  dumb,  yet  eloquent ; 

And  carved  by  no  man's  hand, 
It  frowns,  a  sombre  monument 

By  demon  builders  planned. 
To  give  some  fiendish  purpose  vent 
And  keep  a  brow  of  horror  bent 
Upon  the  land. 

And  poisonous  vines  around  it  cling 

To  guard  its  mystery  ; 
From  lurking  thorn,  and  nettle's  sting 

Barefooted  children  flee ; 


208  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

To  every  living,  breathing  thing 
Its  shadow  makes  a  baneful  ring  — 
Like  Upas  tree. 

No  foliage  in  the  circle  wav^es 
And  prattles  laughing  tones ; 

Yet  near  by,  while  it  wails  or  raves, 
A  pine  tree  drops  its  cones  — 

Like  tears  upon  forgotten  graves 

For  which  some  soul  remembrance  craves. 
And  sighs  and  moans. 

A  choked  and  barren  orchard  sheds 
Some  fruitless  blossoms  near : 

The  vagrant  wild-flowers  hide  their  heads, 
And  shrink  in  fluttering  fear ; 

A  broken  arbor,  vines  in  shreds. 

And  weed-invaded  flower-beds 
Lie  waste  and  sear. 

A  home  which  neither  roof  nor  hall. 
Nor  heart,  nor  fireside  owns  ;  — 

No  chamber,  but  this  chimney  tall 
With  stairs  of  crumbling  stones. 

Charred  tracings  make  a  funeral  pall. 

And  beams  and  rubbish  round,  are  all 
Unburied  bones. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  2O9 


A  chimney  stark;  no  wreath  of  smoke 

Ascends  in  breath-Hke  cloud. 
The  stately  pillared  porch  is  broke,  — 

The  walls  in  dust  are  bowed  ; 
And  idle  gazers  come  and  croak 
About  the  house's  palsy  stroke  — 
Above  its  shroud. 

There's  nothing  strikes  such  sickening  dread 

As  blight  without  a  frost ; 
And  here's  a  home  so  stricken  dead : 

What  clinging  lives  it  cost, 
And  how  it  loved,  and  strove,  and  bled. 
And  stained  the  fountains  where  it  fed,  —   . 
All  this  is  lost. 

A  desert  picture  girt  all  round 

With  frame  of  waving  green ; 
A  void  of  life  without  a  sound  ; 

A  landscape  dead  in  scene  ;  — 
As  though  the  lightning  imps  had  found 
And  made  the  place  a  training  ground 
To  sport  their  sheen. 

'Tis  in  the  flowery  South-Land,  where 

The  sweet  Magnolia  blows ; 
And  music  fills  the  scented  air 

With  passion  of  repose ; 


210  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

And  dusky  forms  in  gardens  fair 
Are  planting  here  ;  —  and  training  there 
The  musky  rose. 

Some  charge  this  ruin  on  a  war 
Which  laid  the  country  low ; 

And  others  blame  Fate's  evil  star 
Which  blasts  with  ashen  glow, 

And  hovers  near,  and  follows  far, 

Like  vengeance  driving  fiery  car 
O'er  fallen  foe. 

The  tattered  fire-place  seems  to  kneel  — 
A  suppliant,  choked  and  dumb  — 

Some  sudden  anguish  to  reveal 
In  words  that  will  not  come. 

Yet,  silenced  by  eternal  seal, 

It  makes  the  rapt  beholder/*^^/ 
This  was  a  home. 

Enough  :  —  the  home  has  lived  and  died, 

Nor  record  left  nor  tone  ; 
It  locks  one  secret  deep  beside 

The  darkness  of  its  own. 
I  come,  with  lingering  love  for  guide 
To  find  a  Memory  —  petrified  — 
Its  own  gravestone. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  211 


The  country  gossips  who  delight 

In  marvels,  gravely  tell 
That  often  travelers  in  the  night 

Are  bound  here  by  a  spell, 
The  while,  a  woman,  fluttering  white 
Who  seems  a  most  unhappy  sprite, 
Sings  how  she  fell. 

The  crescent  moon,  like  broken  ring 
Tossed  on  the  foamy  crest 

Of  some  dark  wave  of  sorrowing 
Is  dropping  down  the  West ; 

Now  shrouded  by  the  billows*  wing 

It  fades,  and  seems  a  dying  thing. 
And  sinks  to  rest. 

I  stand  upon  the  old  fire-place 

Amid  the  dust  of  blight. 
Am  thinking  of  a  vanished  Grace, 

In  this  all-swallowing  night. 

And  on  the  background  dark  I  trace 

The  shadowy  outlines  of  her  face 

In  lines  of  light. 
c 

And  goodness  in  her  features  glows 

As  radiant  as  a  star ; 
Her  heart  is  pure  as  whitest  rose, 

And  sweet  as  roses  are. 


212  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

And  now,  within  my  bosom  flows 
A  current,  as  of  melted  snows 
From  peaks  afar. 

A  glimmer  ?  —  Like  a  wandering  light ! 

It  moves  with  human  pace  ; 
The  tongue  of  Gossip  once  is  right, 

I  see  a  dim,  pale  face. 
There's  nothing  in  it  to  affright. 
And  yet  'tis  strange  to  see  at  night  — 
In  such  lone  place. 

I  feel  a  life  that  touched  and  stirred 
My  own  with  hope  and  fear ; 

I  feel  the  magic  of  a  word 
Unspoken  many  a  year : 

And  like  a  far  chant  faintly  heard. 

Or  cadence  of  a  singing-bird. 
It  soothes  my  ear. 

She  speaks,  as  though  awake  the  dead 

To  tell  forbidden  things 
Of  down  below,  or  overhead. 

Or  ghostly  wanderings. 
Where  feet  of  mortals  never  tread. 
And  while  I  hold  the  story's  thread, 
She  says,  and  sings :  — 


MISCELLANEOUS.  21 3 


I  come  —  the  wraith  that  haunts  the  vale, 

'Tis  said  from  chimney-flue ; 
I've  laughed  to  hear  the  ghostly  tale ; 

And  be  it  false  or  true, 
I  bid  you  at  my  hearth-stone,  hail ! 
I  sing  again  my  nightly  wail, 
And  all  for  you. 

They  say  —  here  dwells  a  haunting  woe ; 

They  call  me  Chimney  Ghost ;  — 
In  very  truth  I  come  and  go 

But  twice  a  year  at  most !  — 
And  then  I  walk  in  dusky  eve 
To  hide  my  face,  but  not  deceive 
A  dolt,  or  post. 

I've  longed  for  many  a  day  and  year 

To  tell  my  shuddering  tale. 
How  laughter  once  resounded  here 

Where  now  sobs  ruin's  wail. 
How,  where  you  stand,  beamed  light  and  cheer- 
A  happy  world  without  a  tear  — 
All  bright  and  hale. 

The  master  was  a  lord  o'  the  land  — 

And  high  on  honor's  roll ; 
Like  prince  he  lived  in  mansion  grand, 

And  gave  no  stinted  dole ; 


214  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

But  with  good  fortune  at  command 
He  reached  to  all  a  welcoming  hand 
With  open  soul. 

A  prince  of  Nature's  royal  blood 
With  culture's  polished  mien, 

He  ruled  the  peaceful  neighborhood, 
Was  Discord's  go-between. 

His  wife  beside  him  queenly  stood, 

And  daughter,  bright,  and  pure,  and  good. 
And  seventeen. 

O  !  how  they  loved  their  only  child  ! 

And  you  do  not  forget 
How  every  one  who  knew  her,  smiled 

On  little  Margaret. 
The  Valley-Lily  she  was  styled ;  — 
All  blooming,  dancing,  free,  and  wild, 
In  sunshine  set. 

And  many  called  her  passing  fair  — 

Of  that  I  should  not  speak, 
But  for  the  sting  that  poisons  where 

Most  women  are  most  weak. 
Of  beauty's  gloss  she  had  her  share 
In  form,  and  brow,  and  eye,  and  hair, 
And  rosy  cheek. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  215 


She  won  admirers  —  honest  men, 
Who  followed  her  with  sighs  ; 

Who  never  spoke  with  tongue  or  pen 
Yet  ever  with  their  eyes. 

They  talked  with  her,  and  now  and  then 

They  walked  with  her  in  wood  and  glen, 
*Neath  starry  skies. 

You  may  have  been  such  follower  — 

May  now  recall  the  scene ; 
She  had  one  ardent  worshipper  — 

Yov  know  the  one  I  mean  ; 
She  could  have  loved  him  —  he  loved  her- 
I  did  not  think  your  heart  to  stir  — 
So  long  't  has  been. 

But  she  was  vain,  and  he  was  proud, 

And  themes  arose  to  jar ; 
And  discontent  with  mutterings  loud, 

Joined  forces  near  and  far. 
And  thunder-toned,  and  lightning  browed 
Rolled  up  a  direful  tempest  cloud  ; 
He  rode  to  war. 

And  then  a  suitor  came  to  woo, 
Who  drove  his  span  from  town ; 

At  first,  whene'er  he  near  her  drew. 
She  choked  her  anger  down. 


2l6  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

She  hated  him ;  yet  thought  of  you 
At  war  with  her.     Revenge  was  due  ; 
She  ceased  to  frown. 

And  chidings  warned  her  lovingly 
Of  false  lights  —  golden-beamed  ; 

But  one  vow-pledged  reality 

Shone  brighter  than  she'd  dreamed  ; 

A  palace  home,  a  queen  to  be ; 

A  summer  cottage  by  the  sea 
Bewildering  gleamed. 

She  did  not  love  —  she  did  not  hate ; 

Of  wounded  pride  she  bled; 
He  seemed  so  frank,  of  good  estate  — 

A  life  of  leisure  led ; 
A  vengeful  will  controlled  her  fate. 
She  had  no  heart  with  him  to  mate. 
Yet  vowed  to  wed. 

She  disappeared  one  summer  day, 
But  whither  none  could  tell. 

'Twas  whispered  :  "  Maggie's  run  away," 
All  up  and  down  the  dell ; 

And  old  and  young,  and  grave  and  gay 

With  look  of  sadness  seemed  to  say:  — 
"  Poor  Margaret  fell." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  21/ 


The  dashing  span  returned  no  more ; 

Its  ominous  absence  meant  — 
Such  things  had  often  been  before  — 

Behind  the  span  she  went. 
Against  the  sympathy  in  store 
Her  father  closed  and  barred  his  door 
In  banishment. 

He  could  not  suffer  Pity's  dole 
Like  alms,  though  kindly  given  ; 

His  life  had  reached  its  bitter  goal 
By  dire  misfortune  riven. 

He  burrowed  darkly  like  the  mole 

Beneath  the  shadow  on  his  soul, 
To  madness  driven. 

The  mother  !     Where  may  language  find 

Fit  words  to  speak  her  woe  ? 
'Twas  said,  she  wandered,  —  low  in  mind, 

The  neighbors  called  it  so  — 
To  yon  deep  thicket,  dark  and  bHnd 
And  gave  her  spirit  to  the  wind 
There  moaning  low. 

Her  corpse  was  by  a  woodman  found 

Upon  the  spring-brook  side ; 
And  stains  were  yet  upon  the  ground 

Which  drank  the  crimson  tide ; 


2l8 


THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 


By  other  symptoms  strewn  around, 
Her  own  hand  made  the  ghastly  wound 
Of  which  she  died. 

And  soon,  one  midnight's  awful  hour 

A  storm  of  horrors  fell ;  — 
Around  this  tottering  chimney-tower 

A  blaze  lit  up  the  dell. 
The  red  cloud  rained  a  fiery  shower. 
And  where  the  master  went,  no  power 
On  earth  could  tell. 

I  guess  his  fate.     Entombed  he  calls 
From  out  death's  dismal  cave ; 

I  know  he  fled  the  flaming  halls 
He  vainly  strove  to  save. 

The  thought  my  very  soul  appalls  ! 

In  yon  well,  'neath  the  fallen  walls,  — 
There  is  his  grave. 


On  that  dread  night  in  terror's  thrall 
Stood  Margaret  at  the  door  — 

Stood  there  to  hear  her  father  call 
To  see  him  —  nevermore. 

She  had  returned  to  tell  him  all ; 

Too  late,  —  and  he  believed  her  fall  - 
The  old  tale  o'er. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  219 


Her  heart  was  famished  for  the  food 

Of  love  she'd  cast  away; 
Repentant  at  the  door  she  stood 

Forgiveness'  boon  to  pray ;  — 

Ashamed  of  blot  on  face  of  good, 

And  from  the  fold  of  maidenhood 

Not  gone  astray. 

Twice  lost  —  she  darted  from  this  place 

Away  —  regardless  where  : 
The  blood-red  tempest  stained  her  face, 

And  lashed  her  streaming  hair. 
The  maddened  fire-fiend  gave  her  chase, 
Still  on — she  ran  the  dreadful  race  — 
With  gaunt  despair. 

And  no  one  saw  her  come  and  go. 

Or  seeing  no  one  knew; 
None  heard  how  Pride  became  her  foe 

And  how  she  triumphed  too  ;  — 
And  how  the  war  did  round  her  throw 
As  army  nurse,  a  cloak  for  woe  — 
None  know  but  you. 

She  moves,  —  and  how  my  heart  beats  fast ; 

A  white  robe  shimmers  there; 
A  sobbing  something  flutters  past 

With  tread  too  firm  for  air. 


220  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

Could  fancy  such  a  semblance  cast 
Of  Maggie  as  I  saw  her  last? 
But  riper  fair. 

The  crescent  hangs  against  the  sky- 
In  rift  broad,  blue  and  clear. 

The  figure  casts  its  shadow  nigh ; 
*Tis  not  a  shape  to  fear;  — 

'Tis  flesh  and  blood  —  can  laugh  and  cry, 

'Tis  Margaret's  self:  — not  gliding  by; 
I  hold  her  here. 

We  meet  again,  —  what  each  hoped  most ; 

From  stormy  sea's  alarm  ; 
We  land  upon  a  shining  coast. 

Beyond  the  billows'  harm. 
With  many  future  plans  engrossed, 
I,  and  the  charming  Chimney  Ghost 
Walk  arm  in  arm. 

The  war  is  past,  and  peace  is  here 

Rejoicing  in  its  room ; 
And  'round  the  whole  horizon  clear 

The  sky  is  swept  of  gloom : 
Our  broken  homes  unite  with  cheer. 
And  gardens  trodden,  waste  and  sear, 
Renew  their  bloom. 


'mmm^^mm' 


OUR   BEST   ROOM. 


Y^^IOME  to  our  house  in  the  country, 
jp"       Out  among  the  birds  and  bees, 
Building  nests,  and  honey  gathering 
In  the  early  garden  trees. 
Peach  and  apple  are  in  blossom, 

And  the  lilacs  laugh  with  bloom  ; 
Come  to  our  house,  and  we'll  open 
To  thy  footstep  our  best  room. 

'Tis  the  only  shadow  'round  us 

Never  pierced  by  sunny  ray  — 
Striking  where  the  child  is  romping, 

Casting  gloom  upon  its  play. 
I  have  seen  the  roses  cluster 

On  the  blank  and  barren  wall  — 
On  the  dead,  unyielding  shutter  ; 

Seen  them  bloom,  and  fade,  and  fall. 

Never  came  a  friendly  visit. 
With  its  greeting,  stir,  and  din ; 

All  the  summer  long  no  strangers 
Came  to  let  the  rose  leaves  in. 


222  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Come  to  our  house  in  the  country, 
Drive  away  our  shade  of  gloom  ; 

Wide  we'll  open  to  thy  knocking 
All  the  blinds  of  our  best  room. 

Come,  before  the  ripened  harvest 

Waves  its  flags  of  yellow  gold ; 
C9me,  and  see  the  sowers'  promise 

Increase  of  an  hundredfold, 
While  the  fluttering  corn-blades  prattle 

Of  the  gems  their  husks  enclose, 
And  the  stalks  embrace  each  other. 

Lapping  arms  across  the  rows. 

Now  the  country  waves  a  welcome, 
Banners  float  in  field  and  tree ; 

Hidden  minstrels  vie  in  singing:  — 
"  Here  is  beauty —  come  and  see  !  " 

Come  and  see  the  vernal  glory. 
Come  and  feel  the  bliss  of  pride, 

When  the  Sun,  an  ardent  bridegroom, 
Leads  the  blushing  Earth,  as  bride. 

Come  and  hear  the  choral  anthems 
Floating  on  the  singing  breeze ; 

Where  the  grand  old  hills  are  organs 
Growing  pipes  of  singing  trees. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  223 


Incense  from  the  swinging  censers 
Sweetens  every  wind  that  blows  — 

Come  and  breathe  the  mingled  odors 
At  the  fountains  of  the  rose. 

Come  !     Taste  all  the  sweets  of  being 

At  the  summer  founts  of  rest ; 
Come,  and  bathe  in  crystal  beauty 

Where  the  waters  all  are  blest ; 
Greet  the  rosy  cheeks  of  morning 

With  a  zest  that  never  cloys  ; 
Dally  on  the  couch  of  evening, 

Dappled  *round  with  golden  joys. 

Here,  within  an  Eden  blooming, 

Love  was  blest  and  children  grew ; 
Years  and  years  the  springs  returning 

Crowned  themselves  with  blossoms  new. 
Years  and  years  one  shadow  deepened 

In  the  midst  of  sun  and  bloom, 
'Till  it  seems  —  we  dread  to  breathe  it  — 

There's  a  ghost  in  our  best  room. 

Work  is  tuned  to  merry  marches ; 

Hear  its  accents  jocund  ring 
In  the  highway,  field,  and  woodland, 

Timed  to  measures  of  the  spring. 


224  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Life  is  cast  of  earnest  labor ; 

If  its  metal's  ring  be  true, 
Give  the  bell  the  tongue  of  pastime, 

Toning  all  we  have  to  do. 

Rosa's  up  and  in  the  dairy, 

Humming  o'er  her  milking  pail, 
While  her  pan-and-kettle  music 

Tinkle  through  a  misty  veil. 
In  the  foggy  front  of  morning, 

Every  day  —  or  foul,  or  fair  — 
In  the  evening  twilight  shadows  — 

Always  cheery,  she  is  there. 

Anna's  busy,  neat  and  careful, 

With  a  dash  of  playful  art ; 
Tidy  graces  sweep  around  her 

While  she  gives  the  house  her  heart 
Baking,  bare-armed,  in  the  kitchen, 

Then,  with  handy  brush  and  broom, 
Sweeping  over  flecks  of  sunshine  — 

Dusting  'round  our  spot  of  gloom. 

Rosa  has  her  pets  and  playthings  — 
Things  that  fortune  frowns  upon ; 

Anna's  pride,  when  work  is  over. 
Bursts  in  beauty  on  the  lawn. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  225 


You  would  never  think  them  kindred  — 
Not  when  side  by  side  they  stand  — 

Rosa's  brown  from  wind  and  weather ! 
Anna's  fair,  with  dainty  hand. 

Yet  they're  sisters,  sweet  and  loving, 

Each  in  life's  allotted  part 
Finds  the  motive  of  her  being, 

Rules  the  Empire  of  the  Heart. 
Each,  dividing  cares  of  household. 

Stands  confessed  the  house's  head ; 
Rosa  stores  the  milk  and  butter, 

Anna  kneads  the  milk-white  bread. 

Both  are  loved,  and  both  are  lovely. 

Modest  daughters  of  the  farm  ; 
One  is  plain  and  one  is  pretty  — r 

Equal  worth  gives  equal  charm. 
Anna  loves  the  forms  of  beauty, 

Even  in  her  nut-brown  loaves ; 
Slighted  things  abused  by  others 

Are  the  pets  that  Rosa  loves. 

All  year  'round  the  nights  and  mornings 
On  these  sisters  set  and  rise, 

'Mid  the  thousand  cares  that  challenge 
Patient  hands  and  watchful  eyes. 


226  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Midday  brings  their  paths  together. 
Shows  the  contrast  of  their  bloom, 

Sitting,  chatting,  sewing,  knitting  — 
Keeping  guard  on  our  best  room. 

Here  are  strangers  !     Open  windows  ! 

Every  room  must  welcome  make  ! 
Light  and  air  have  raised  the  eyelids, 

All  the  house  is  wide  awake  ; 
From  the  murky  room  come  odors 

Dank  and  musk  and  varnish  blent ; 
Timid  children  peer  around  it. 

Wondering  where  the  darkness  went. 

Hark !     The  tall  clock  in  its  corner 

Wakes  and  strikes  with  sudden  start, 
As  the  streams  of  air  and  sunshine 

Pour  around  its  shrunken  heart. 
Heir-loom  of  our  generations. 

Passing  to  the  oldest  boy  ; 
We  can  hear  its  peals  of  laughter. 

We  can  feel  its  throbbing  joy. 

Strangers  !  —  friends  and  city  people  — 

Gentle,  easy  and  refined ! 
Out  of  town  to  spend  the  season, 

Seeking  sport  and  rest  of  mind. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  22/ 


They  have  come  with  shining  presence, 
Chased  our  shadows  from  the  door. 

Here  at  our  house  in  the  country  — 
Now  we  ask  for  nothing  more. 

All  the  day  our  home  is  making 

Music  of  the  gladsome  heart ; 
In  the  merry  concert  ringing, 

Children  play  their  little  part. 
Early  walks  to  sunrise  hill-tops 

Meet  the  glow  of  blushing  day ; 
"  Good  night "  sighs  in  twilight  rambles. 

Where  the  moonshine  glints  the  way. 

Bounties  of  a  father's  table 

Are  with  lavish  plenty  spread :  — 
Rosa's  prints  of  yellow  butter  1 

Anna's  loaves  of  matchless  bread  ! 
O'er  the  tea-urn  beams  our  mother. 

Radiant  as  a  full-orbed  star  — 
Fountain  of  a  love  that  leads  us 

Where  the  world's  best  offerings  are. 

Rounds  of  pleasure  speed  the  summer 
On  its  flowery-margined  way ; 

And  the  brightest  banks  of  roses 
Bloom  for  Anna's  wedding  day, 


228  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

In  the  holy  calm  of  rapture, 
Lovely  bride  and  happy  groom 

Join  their  hands  for  aye  and  ever  — 
Seal  their  vows  in  our  best  room. 


THE  WINDING  ROAD  IN  THE  WOOD. 


i 


OME  by  the  winding  road  in  the  wood 
Jp       Which  girdles  the  mountain  slope, 
And  follows  the  dashing,  silver  flood, 
As  life  is  guided  by  Hope. 
It  curves  and  rambles  with  wilful  pride, 

Where  brightest  the  wild  flowers  blow ; 
'Mong  rocks  and  brambles  on  every  side. 

With  th'  green  above  and  below. 
Oh  !  let  us  turn  from  the  highway  wide. 

And  follow  the  silver  flood. 
Where  roses  are  lining  on  every  side 
The  winding  road  in  the  wood. 

The  balmy  morning  is  dripping  through 

The  fringes  of  vine-clad  trees. 
And  crystal  drops  of  diamond  dew 

Perfume  the  wings  of  the  breeze. 
Moist  with  the  breath  of  the  waterfall. 

We  pause,  and  list  to  the  din 
Of  the  clattering  mill,  and  the  quiet  call 

To  fare  at  the  wayside  inn. 
So  life  may  dawn  on  a  shady  slope, 

In  view  of  the  silver  flood, 
And  rest  in  the  calm  of  a  cherished  hope, 

By  the  winding  road  in  the  wood. 


230  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Despite  the  glare  of  the  noontide  ray, 

Our  path  is  pleasant  and  cool  — 
We  picnic  all  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 

And  lunch  by  the  fountain  pool. 
The  wood-sprites  chatter  and  disappear 

Within  their  mossy  domain ; 
Birds  hop  around  without  tremor  of  fear. 

And  gather  the  crumbs  that  remain. 
So,  at  the  mid-day  of  life  we  repast 

On  memories  happy  and  good. 
And  thoughts  for  the  hungry  world  we  cast 

On  the  winding  road  in  the  wood. 

Now  daylight  fades  and  evening  descends  — 

And  soon  it  will  be  dark  night ; 
Our  coming  is  cheered  by  welcoming  friends 

Whose  dwellings  appear  in  sight  — 
The  city  is  near,  serene  and  blest ; 

Above  it,  the  red,  round  moon ; 
And  lighted  and  guided  we'll  sink  to  rest 

At  the  end  of  our  journey  soon. 
We  rest  where  no  fiery  passions  goad 

At  the  source  of  the  silver  flood ; 
How  happy  is  life  by  the  shady  road  — 

The  winding  road  in  the  wood. 


>i|£.^fe^ 


TWICE  A  CHILD. 


HAD  a  song  to  sing  at  morning-tide 
Of  sweet  young  spring  as  first  she  came  to  me, 
i  And  we  as  lovers  met  with  mutual  glee ; 
But  as  I  grew,  endearments  multiplied. 
And  crowded  song  and  many  things  beside, 
Quite  out  of  sight,  and  out  of  memory. 

Life's  fragments  left,  seem  hardly  worth  a  song, 
And  would  not  be,  but  for  some  younger  men 
Who  dream  and  think  and  feel  as  I  did  then ; 
Or  in  their  passion-torrent  sweeping  strong. 
May  sometimes  for  their  childish  playthings  long, 
As  I  do  now,  —  at  Life's  three  score  and  ten. 

And  now  I  sing  it  ere  the  visions  fly : 
It  may  be  with  a  feeble  piping  voice  — 
Here  in  the  evening  cool  —  away  from  noise ; 
No  matter  if  it  make  me  laugh  or  cry 
I  still  would  sing  my  song  before  I  die, 
Among  the  shades  of  dim  remembered  joys. 


232  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

I  do  not  know  just  how  it  came  to  be, 
But  I  remember  me  —  a  child  at  play- 
In  mellow  sunshine  —  that  was  yesterday  ; 
And  then  there  came  a  blank  —  a  syncope, 
And  all  the  sense  of  life  died  out  of  me, 
And  Thought  grew  dark,  and  Memory  lost  its  way. 

So  many  tuneful  voices  came  with  spring. 
That  filled  my  heart  with  rhapsodies  of  song; 
I  listened  often,  and  I  pondered  long. 
And  sometimes  did  I  even  try  to  sing 
But  could  not  give  my  fancies  soaring  wing. 
To  hold  their  courses  regular  and  strong. 

I  nursed  a  voiceless  poem  in  my  heart 
Which  beat  and  swelled  with  tide  of  impulse  high, 
Yet  yielded  nothing  for  the  ear  or  eye. 
And  little  solace  for  life's  toiling  part. 
Except  the  thought  that  shot  like  golden  dart 
To  sing  my  song  of  spring  before  I  die. 

Something  has  happened  ;  what,  I  can  not  tell ; 
There  must  have  been  a  painful  period  long ; 
I  had  a  fever  and  my  head  was  wrong, 

And  then  methought  I  heard  a  dreadful  knell ! 

It  seemed  I  died,  yet  here  alive  and  well, 
I'm  singing  now  my  childhood's  cheery  song. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  233 


I  have  it :    Something  whispered  I  was  old. 

It  was  a  false  voice  sent  to  torture  me ; 

For  I  am  merry  and  from  sorrow  free, 

And  still  the  bursting  blooms  of  Spring  behold 
Through    snnshine's    melting    spray    of    yellow 
gold,  — 

And  all  is  blissful  as  it  used  to  be. 

The  other  children  like  me,  and  we  run 
With  wayward  feet  all  o'er  a  flowery  land ; 
But  one  of  them  forever  holds  my  hand. 
And  leads  me  to  the  spots  of  brightest  sun. 
And  there  we  have  the  rarest  freaks  of  fun  ; 
But  why  I'm  led  I  scarcely  understand. 

I  know :  My  mother  told  me  how  it  fell. 
I  have  been  ill  —  too  ill  to  know  or  speak. 
And  in  the  fields  the  breath  of  health  I  seek. 

'Twas  then  I  thought  I  heard  that  dreadful  knell 
But  now  I  feel  myself  completely  well 
And  only,  maybe,  just  a  little  weak. 

The  breath  of  spring  days  rank  with  flowers  and 
grass 

Will  bring  me  through  and  give  me  strength  again  ; 

It  was  a  dream,  that  I  had  walked  with  men 
Among  a  selfish,  hardened,  wrangling  mass 
Where  I  was  roughly  handled,  crushed.     Alas  ! 

Three  score  ?  I'm  only  lately  turned  of  ten. 


234  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

And  here  I  am  with  romping  girls  and  boys, 
Enjoying  all  their  thoughts  and  moods  and  play, 
And  laughing  merry  as  the  bird-song  day : 
We  have  our  little  griefs  ;  but  boundless  joys, 
A  feast  of  childishness  that  never  cloys  ; 
This  old  brown  pipe  I  picked  up  by  the  way. 

Now  let  me  smoke  it  for  the  day  is  done  ; 

Where  did  I  learn  to  smoke  ?     No  matter  where  ; 

I  like  the  fumes,  nor  further  know,  nor  care. 
The  cloud  will  vanish  in  to-morrow's  sun, 
When  noisy  play-time  calls'us,  every  one. 

And  with  rejoicing  fills  the  joyful  air. 

I  seem  to  think  the  things  I've  thought  before. 
And  speak  the  old  words  too,  from  day  to  day ; 
As  though  they  had  been  said,  and  laid  away ; 
I  fear  I  sing  the  same  song  o'er  and  o'er 
And  then  the  music  marches  slower,  and  slower, 
And  words  drop  in  I  did  not  mean  to  say. 

My  clothes  are  all  so  loose  I  have  to  laugh 
At  such  a  botch :  I  wonder  who's  to  blame  ? 
And  nothing  seems  to  fit  me  but  my  name. 

This  cane  !     How  comes  it  that  I  need  a  staff! 

'Tis  just  as  useless  as  an  epitaph 
To  living  man,  and  very  much  the  same. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  235 


The  other  day  I  heard  my  darling  Rose 
Say  to  a  playmate  :  "  Grandpa's  such  a  child  ;  " 
And  then  I  looked  the  other  way  and  smiled ; 

Of  course  I  am  as  everybody  knows ; 

But  why  tell  of  it  so  mysterious,  closCy 
As  if  I  were  not  right  or  reconciled  ? 

Sweet  Rose  !  That  name  when  e'er  I  hear  it  spoke, 

Of  still  another  Rose  it  seems  to  tell; 

And  then  I  hear  again  that  dreadful  knell 

Ring  through  my  life  with  slow  and  muffled  stroke 
To  call  me  back  where  once  my  heart  was  broke, 

0  !  would  I  could  forget  that  tolling  bell. 

Why  does  it  murmur  with  a  mournful  tongue, 
Afar  and  hidden  in  the  midway  gloom 
And  strike  the  ghostly  watches  of  the  tomb 
For  me  alone,  —  while  I  am  yet  so  young, 
And  with  my  maiden  song  of  Spring  unsung, 
Which  should  be  full  of  life  and  joy  and  bloom  ? 

And    when    it    sounds  I    smell   the  fresh-turned 
mould, 
With  grasses  mingled,  and  with  wild  thyme  trod ; 
And  then  I  feel  the  shock  of  faUing  clod 

Whose  rattle  makes  my  very  blood  run  cold ; 

I've  seen  that  place  before,  and  young  or  old, 

1  know  the  walled  field,  and  uneven  sod. 


236  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Should  I  be  old  and  childish  ?     Be  it  so  ; 

'Tis  no  misfortune,  nor  disgrace  I  ween ; 

Two  childhoods,  with  no  middle  life  between  ? 
I'm  not  so  childish  but  I  right  well  know 
The  time  of  day,  night-fall,  and  morning's  glow. 

And  drifts  of  snow,  and  budding  springtime's  green. 

It  must  be  so ;  it  is,  now  dawns  the  light. 
Beneath  the  cloud  it  shoots  with  level  ray ; 
But  'tis  the  evening  sun  —  reversing  day, 
And  shows  my  scattered  hair  all  silver  white 
Like  star  beams  falling  o'er  the  brow  of  night ; 
And  I  am  shrunken,  weak,  and  old  and  gray. 

Sweet  Rose,  come  here  !  did'st  thou  live  long  ago 
In  some  place  where  I  lost  myself  with  thee ; 
And  where  we  followed  a  sweet  melody 

Until  it  breathed  so  far  away  and  low 

It  seemed  into  another  life  to  flow  ? 
And  here  it  comes  again  for  Rose  and  me  ! 

This  is  the  fragrant  harvest-time  of  heart. 
When  all  the  years  their  treasured  sweets  enclose 
And  love  is  garnered  'neath  the  winter's  snows, 
And  fortune's  hurt,  and  sorrow's  stinging  smart 
That  come  to  all,  have  played  their  painful  part ; 
The  thorn  haunts  not  the  essence  of  the  rose. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  23/ 


Don't  think  me  foolish,  child ;  I  have  my  fears 
That  things  are  not  the  very  things  they  seem  ; 
And  that  I'm  waking  from  a  troubled  dream  — 

The  lingering  nightmare  of  my  working  years  ; 

There's  nothing  in  it  calling  for  thy  tears, 
But  tell  me,  laughing,  with  thy  blue  eyes'  beam ; 

Nay,  do  not  speak  ;  look^  what  I'd  have  thee  tell ; 
I  feel  the  truth  thy  prattle  would  disclose  : 
My  path  of  life  the  full  round  circuit  shows, 

The  childhood's  meet,  embrace,  and  all  is  well. 
■   I  hear  the  toning  of  that  blissful  bell. 
For  her  and  me.     Thy  grandmother  is  my  Rose. 


OCCASIONAL. 


THE  GIANTS, 


PRESS  ASSOCIATION  POEM. 


IM  legends  tell  of  giants  fierce  and  bold  — 
The  scourge  of  men  in  warlike  days  of  old  ; 
In  stature  monsters,  terrible  and  grim, 
Whose  vaunted  power  was  massive  strength 
of  limb. 
One  so  created  in  the  mould  of  wrath 
Strode  forth  to  battle  for  the  hosts  of  Gath. 
Like  other  monster-growths,  they  passed  away, 
And  left  their  impress  deep  in  plastic  clay. 

Creative  forces  —  formless,  undefined  — 
Enfold  the  deep  mysterious  germs  of  mind. 
The  world  is  ever  building  —  never  done, 
With  every  change  creation's  work  goes  on  ; 
And  giants  build  it  —  from  the  central  fires 
Up  to  the  highest  peaks  of  mountain  spires  ;  — 
Giants  of  earth  and  fire,  and  sea,  and  air. 
Below,  around,  above  and  everywhere. 


OCCASIONAL.  239 


'Tis  told  in  story's  page,  and  voiced  in  song 
How  other  giants  helped  the  world  along  — 
The  stately  beacon-towers  of  humankind 
That  bore  the  first  immortal  sparks  of  mind. 
They  rose  above  the  all-surrounding  night 
And  flashed  the  earliest  gleam  of  morning  light 
Ere  full-plumed  day  with  lustrous  breezy  wings 
Had  brushed  the  darkness  from  the  face  of  things. 
These  columns  stand  adown  the  misty  steep, 
Where  deed-embalmed  the  mummied  ages  sleep. 
They  fill  each  living  epoch's  wondering  sight. 
For  still  they  flash  the  early  morning  light. 
We  climb  the  steep  ;  these  beacons  point  the  way 
Ascending  towards  the  crystal  dome  of  Day. 
Inspired   by   hopes,    'mid    clouds    of    doubts    and 

fears. 
We  mount  the  tottering  stairway  of  the  years  ; 
System  succeeds  to  system  —  clod  to  clod  — 
Building  rude  earthworks  to  the  heights  of  God. 

Within  a  temple  pillared  mountain  high. 
With  bed  rock  floor,  and  roof  of  arching  sky. 
Where  science  makes  all  nature's  empire  hers. 
And  Physics  trains  her  young  philosophers, 
A  virgin  queen  exalts  a  royal  seat, 
With  ardent  wooers  thronging  at  her  feet. 
Her  robe  is  plain ;  one  solitary  gem 
Lights  up  the  crescent  of  her  diadem. 


240  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

Her  purpose  pure  is  pledged  by  vestal  vow, 

And  Truth's  auroras  dawn  upon  her  brow. 

Her  thoughts  are  out  upon  that  solemn  sea 

Which  glistens  star-gemmed  to  Infinity. 

Intent  she  bends  her  telescopic  eyes 

As  questioning  some  new  marvel  in  the  skies. 

Her  voice  proclaims  the  triumph  of  her  sight, 

And  shouts  :    "Another  star  has  come  to  light !  " 

Rapt  millions  catch  her  words,  and  near  and  far 

All  hail  with  joy  the  advent  of  a  star. 

Not  all  —  shut  up  in  self  with  folded  hands, 

The  universal  croaker  sneering  stands. 

His  wisdom  brooding  emulates  the  owl, 

And  thus  he  hoots  displeasure  v/ith  a  scowl : 

"A  fresh  arrival  from  yon  boundless  sea ; 

Another  sail  from  dim  infinity  ! 

A  new-born  star  has  floated  in  your  ken  : 

A  spark  supernal !     What  is  that  to  men  ? 

A  little  glow  worm  is  of  vaster  worth,. 

For  it,  at  least,  is  useful  to  the  earth  ! 

Your  star,  with  me,  no  spark  of  favor  finds ; 

The  light  you  boast  of  is  the  light  that  blinds  ! 

While  searching  out  some  far  and  barren  sphere, 

You  overlook  earth's  riches  that  are  near. 

We  have  examples  of  the  good  you've  done  : 

Some  ugly  spots  you  found  upon  the  sun : 

You  have  dispelled  the  magic  of  the  bow 

That  casts  athwart  the  storm  its  peaceful  glow ; 


OCCASIONAL.  241 


Deluged  the  flood  with  explanations  dark ; 

Destroyed  the  grand  old  safety  of  the  ark  ; 

Uprooted  Eden ;  given  its  bridal  bower 

To  charms  more  subtle  than  the  serpent's  power ; 

Created  an  obscure  creation,  when 

Brisk  monkeys  were  the  ancestors  of  men. 

And  crowning  bad,  with  sacrilege  still  worse 

You've  made  a  plaything  of  the  Universe. 

Tell  me,  vain  Dreamer,  since  your  reign  began, 

What  real  blessing  have  you  brought  to  man  ?  " 

The  queenly  Presence,  stern  and  dignified. 
Surveyed  the  vastness  of  her  realm  with  pride. 
And  then  she  spoke  :  "  The  world  is  getting  old. 
But  not  like  men  whose  sickly  hearts  grow  cold : 
Change  is  her  law  —  a  mournful  change  of  late 
Is  that  her  men  are  not  by  far  so  great. 
Observe  her  progeny  when  she  was  young, 
'Twas  lusty  soil  from  which  those  giants  sprung. 
Each   towering    form    would  make  —  'tis  no  great 
%       praise  — 

A  hundred  little  men  of  modern  days. 
They  fought  for  life  unaided,  and  they  won 
With  Nature's  armor  buckled  loosely  on ; 
They  had  no  need  of  battlements  and  swords ; 
Their  arms  were  truth,  and  wisely  spoken  words, 
They  live  —  immortal  by  their  sovereign  might. 
Forever  crowned  with  wreaths  of  morning  light ! 


242  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

And  ye  —  the  magnates  of  a  later  day  — 
With  all  their  light  see  not  so  far  as  they ! 
By  them  upraised  Hope  nerves  you  to  aspire, 
And  build  your  systems  higher,  and  still  higher ; 
And  this  lone  virtue  called  me  to  your  aid 
To  guide  the  progress  that  the  world  has  made. 

*'  I  came  to  build  amid  the  ruin  wrought 

By  Superstition  —  cowering  fiend  of  thought  ; 

That  ogre  of  the  night  with  croaking  mind, 

And  owly  vision  —  to  the  noonday  blind. 

Since  man  had  falFn  from  that  high  mental  sphere 

Where  rose  his  young  perception  wide  and  clear, 

rd  court  for  him  what  outward  wealth  supplies  — 

Such  aid  as  glasses  give  to  aged  eyes. 

The  greatest  monarchs  to  my  feet  I'd  bring, 

And  who  so  powerful  as  the  Iron  King  ? 

Related  to  our  race  by  ties  of  blood. 

He  wears  the  attributes  of  humanhood 

To  sympathize  with  wants,  and  cares  and  pains 

Through  his  own  atoms  coursing  in  our  veins. 

What  mission-labor  could  my  thoughts  engage 

To  yield  such  glory  as  an  Iron  Age  ? 

For  in  its  coming,  man  his  strength  regains, 

A  physical  and  moral  savior  reigns. 

Lamenting  deeply  your  degenerate  birth, 

I  sought  for  champions  in  the  air  and  earth. 

That  might  compensate  for  the  loss  you  bear 


OCCASIONAL.  243 


By  ages  dark,  would  they  their  bounty  share. 

Could  I  but  conquer  these,  the  deed  would  be 

A  crown  of  joy,  and  lasting  victory  ! 

A  race  of  giants  born  amid  the  strife 

Of  lawless  atoms  wakening  into  life  ! 

They  walked  abroad  when  nothing  seemed  to  be 

But  sea  and  sun  —  the  blazing  sun,  and  sea. 

The  circling  orb  impregned  the  idle  stream 

With  fruitful  dalHance  of  his  living  beam. 

Dark,  wavy  slime,  snail-like  began  to  creep, 

Then  monster  reptiles  ploughed  along  the  deep. 

Dread  sounds  ne'er  heard  by  man  awoke  in  forms. 

That  perished  battling  with  primeval  storms  — 

Commingled  thunders,  hisses,  wails  and  groans 

Which  antedate  the  age  of  Mastodons. 

Mixed  land  and  water  surged,  and  parted  wide, 

Till  lofty  summits  nodded  o'er  the  tide. 

And  happy  valleys  teemed  with  roving  herds. 

And  tameless  beasts,  and  choirs  of  singing  birds. 

'Twas  thus  the  first  organic  life  began. 

Which  found  at  last  its  perfect  type  in  man. 

In  after  times  the  eldest  Mother  Earth 

Through  peril  passed  the  mighty  throes  of  birth. 

The  sea  made  hostile  effort  to  regain 

The  right  of  empire  o'er  his  old  domain. 

The  land  'mid  battlements  of  mountains  stood : 

A  world  was  in  the  ruin  of  the  Flood. 

Then  spoke  those  giants  whose  bright  words  adorn 


244  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

•The  dawning  page  of  Mankind's  second  morn. 

Then  came  deep  darkness,  thick,  portentous  gloom, 

Arid  all  the  world  was.shouded  for  the  tomb. 

Could  I  endure  a  withering,  green  decay  ? 

Could  I  behold  young  glory  fade  away  ? 

I  digged  as  one  who  digs  for  shining  dross 

To  patch  his  fortunes,  worn  by  worldly  loss ; 

I  soared  as  souls  might  soar  to  realms  of  day, 

From  blight  and  darkness  in  the  prisoned  clay; 

No  nook  or  corner  of  the  visual  round, 

But  I  was  there,  and  vagrant  forces  found ; 

Yet  how  to  link  them  to  the  human  car 

Was  quite  as  puzzling  as  to  reach  a  star. 

I  journeyed  o'er  the  desert  reach  between 

The  things  that  are,  and  things  that  once  had  been 

I  stood  upon  the  shores  of  farthest  seas 

Where  naught  disturbed  the  tracks  of  centuries. 

I  saw  the  giants*  footprints  in  the  rocks  — 

Heard  their  deep  thundering  —  and  felt  the  shocks. 

Then  terror  reigned  ;  and  people  hurrying  fled 

From  roofs  and  timbers  crumbling  overhead, 

To  brave  the  threatening  chasm  underneath, 

Where  every  step  disclosed  a  yawning  death. 

Sheer  in  the  gulf  I  plunged  with  mad  desire 

To  sound  the  sea  of  subterranean  fire. 

The  lurid  blaze  revealed  gigantic  forms 

With  sooty  features,  and  great  brawny  arms  ; 

They  wrought  in  metals  hissing  in  the  flume, 


OCCASIONAL.  245 


And  sparkling  fitful  twilight  though  the  gloom. 
The  sulphurous  fumes,  by  roaring  bellows  whirled 
Though  mountain  chimneys,  terrify  the  world. 
In  darkened  corners  sounding  anvils  rang. 
And    hammers    fell   with    measured    clink,    clank, 

clang. 
They  forged  the  wares  Vulcanic  skill  invents, 
And  moulded  ribs  and  bones  of  continents. 
Far  o'er  the  level,  answering  blasts  of  flame, 
The  quickening  surge  of  shadowy  pistons  came; 
Huge  coaches  rushed  before  the  lagging  gales 
Across  a  monster  spider's  web  of  rails  ; 
Long,  rumbling  trains,  with  deafening  crash,  sped 

nigher. 
Like  hissing  serpents  armed  with  fangs  of  fire. 
Then  *neath  the  mountains  dashed  with  thundering 

sweep 
Through  grinning  gateways  to  the  darker  deep. 
Aloft  in  murky  air,  from  fields  of  smoke. 
At  intervals  the  vivid  lightnings  spoke. 
Without  an  oar,  or  sail-propelling  breeze, 
Great  iron  barges  plough  the  fiery  seas ; 
Their  dripping  cargoes  unseen  power  obey. 
Till  landed  in  the  deep  hills  far  away. 
Returning,  on  the  tide's  subsiding  swell, 
They  caught  some  sinking  islands  as  they  fell  : 
And  all  the  while  the  jolly  bargemen  sang 
In  chorus  to  the  anvil's  clink,  clank,  clang, 


246         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Could  timid  men  these  stubborn  powers  o'erwhelm  - 
These  rugged  moulders  of  the  Iron  Realm  ? 
Before  the  dauntless  Iton  King  I  stood, 
Resolved  to  praise  his  honest  hardihood. 
The  softest  words  the  deepest  feelings  reach, 
And  thus  I  plied  the  old  king  with  my  speech ! 
'  O  sturdy  monarch  of  this  wide  domain, 
Hard  featured,  yet  of  purest  royal  strain, 
I  come  to  save  a  labor-struggling  race. 
And  look  upon  their  benefactor's  face. 
I  care  not  for  the  shine  of  sordid  gold. 
Whose  shallow  favors  all  are  bought  and  sold  — 
.A  peddling  vagabond  with  empty  pack 
Who  tramps  around  the  same  hard  beaten  track. 
Give  me  old  Iron  Honesty  and  worth. 
And  I  will  garner  all  the  fruits  of  Earth.' 
The  Iron  King  exultingly  replied  : 
'  My  realm  is  yours  and  countless  wealth  beside  ; 
All  that  I  have  I  give  —  the  unpolished  ore 
And  smelting  fire-pools,  in  exhaustless  store, 
To  win  my  artisans,  you  first  must  catch. 
And  having  caught  them  find  the  man  to  match. 
They've  served  me  well,  and  with  me  they  remain 
Till  you  can  lead  them  with  an  iron  chain ; 
Else  they  would  hide,  and  sport  in  sea  and  air. 
And  ramble  here  and  there  and  everywhere.' 
I  sought  the  upper  world  with  solemn  vow 
To  sound  the  secrets  of  the  deep;  but  how? 


OCCASIONAL.  247 


I  first  awoke  deep  passion  for  my  cause 
To  read  and  comprehend  eternal  laws. 
I  studied  men,  the  soul's  abode  to  scan 
And  light  the  inmost  dwelling  of  the  man. 
Great  nature  in  her  grandest  moods  and  scenes 
Works  wonders  by  the  simplest  modes  and  means. 
A  great  truth,  homeless,  ever  seeks  and  finds 
Fond  recognition  in  the  plainest  minds. 
One  wastes  a  life  pursuing  shadows  fleet 
To  find  a  treasure  lying  at  his  feet ; 
The  open,  artless  man  of  truth  in  quest 
Proves  by  results  that  nearest  things  are  best ; 
To  great  work  great  simplicity  he  brings, 
He  waves  his  wand,  and  forth  a  giant  springs. 
A  touch  of  flame  —  that  spirit  fibre  bright 
That  made  the  candle  —  must  be  there  to  light. 

"A  vessel  sails  beyond  the  guardian  coast, 
And  sorrowing  friends  mourn  all  her  seamen  lost 
Around,  above  them,  nothing  seems  to  be 
But  sea  and  sun  —  the  circling  sun  and  sea. 
The  sun  by  day ;  by  night  a  friendly  star 
Directs  their  course,  and  guides  them  from  afar. 
That  vessel  has  a  Giant  at  the  helm  — 
The  trusty  Magnet  of  the  Iron-realm. 

"An  apple  falls  —  'tis  worthless,  and  may  rot, 
Yet  gives  the  world  a  live,  majestic  thought  — 


248  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  bell-tongue  struck  clear  metal  of  the  mind 
And  ringing  thoughts  went  out  to  all  mankind. 

"A  storm  is  marching  up  with  banners  high, 

And  trooping  clouds  are  rattling  in  the  sky ; 

An  old  man  flies  a  fragile,  feathery  kite  ; 

His  key  suspended  drops  a  spark  of  light. 

Most  noble  thought,  and  strangely  potent  key 

To  ope  the  bolted  door  of  mystery ; 

A  message  from  the  skies  the  plaything  brought ; 

The  cloud-throned  Giant  Lightning  has  been  caught. 

A  sailless  ship  stands  proudly  on  the  wave, 
Nor  wanders  lost  when  winds  and  waters  rave  ; 
But,  driving  onward,  keeps  her  destined  way. 
Behind  her  mingle  cloud  and  seething  spray. 
A  magic  movement  urged  by  subtle  power, 
With  iron  harnessed  to  the  day  and  hour 
Ever  and  everywhere  at  man's  command, 
His  course  resistless  conquers  sea  and  land. 
In  empires*  march  he  leaves  no  living  foes. 
Sprinkling  the  earth  with  cities  as  he  goes 
To  win  of  Progress'  self  the  brightest  crown ; 
O'erturning  hills  and  digging  mountains  down. 
Sowing  his  path  with  bountiful  increase. 
And  training  nations  in  the  arts  of  peace. 
Vapor  —  pure  essence  of  the  wave  and  beam  — 
Another  giant  thou  —  all-conquering  Steam  ! 


OCCASIONAL.  249 


A  fleeter  step  is  yet  upon  the  sea 

Than  Ariel  or  wing-footed  Mercury.  '        . 

Beneath  the  billows'  stormy  roll  and  rack, 

Secure  it  speeds  along  its  winding  track. 

The  plunging  diver  swims  the  ocean  now, 

The  lightning's  halo  misty  round  his  brow  — 

Not  so  of  old  he  made  his  prowess  known 

When  wheeled  by  tempests  on  a  cloud-girt  throne  — 

He  whispers  instant  words  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  continents  embrace  forever  more. 

"  The  Thunderer  is  subdued,  who  ruled  alone 

And  hurled  his  mandates  from  Olympus'  throne. 

The  Greeks  succumb ;  and  while  their  Argus  nods, 

We  sack  the  temples  of  their  chosen  gods. 

Oh  foreign  to  their  mythologic  plan 

That  Jove  should  fall  —  an  errand  boy  to  man  ! 

All  hail !  electric,  universal  spark. 

Thou  torch  of  daylight  in  our  being's  dark ; 

Pervading  all  things  with  transcendent  might. 

Pure  type  of  the  eternal  essence  —  Light ! 

"  Review  my  record  to  the  present ;  know 
My  triumphs  are  the  surer  that  they're  slow. 
The  systems  are  my  studies  —  worlds  my  prize ; 
My  telescopes  are  only  giant  eyes. 
Unnumbered  volumes  open  to  your  sight 
Tell  how  each  starry  orb  has  come  to  light. 


250  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

My  empire  comprehends  both  star  and  clod ; 
I  show  you  nature  from  the  hand  of  God." 

So  Science  spoke.     Her  court  approval  bow, 
And  all  salute  the  truth-illumined  brow. 
From  every  quarter  come  the  tidings  glad, 
Mankind  is  saved ;  the  world  is  iron-clad. 
The  Iron  Realm  was  not  a  hope  deferred  — 
The  Iron  King  has  nobly  kept  his  word. 
All  round  as  erst  the  giant's  anvils  rang, 
Now  hear  the  hammer's  music,  clink,  clank,  clang. 
Arabian  tales  —  wild  fancies  dreamed  of  old  — 
Were  innocent  of  lurking  truths  they  told. 
To  Haroun,  spell-bound  on  his  Orient  throne. 
The  alphabet  of  wonder  was  unknown. 
Aladdin's  magic  story's  marvellous  dower 
Stands  shamed  before  a  mightier  wizard's  power. 
A  hammer  strikes  !     The  Genii  catch  the  sound, 
And  ringing  echoes  girdle  earth  around ; 
The  Western  Magi  sacred  charms  employ. 
And  tuneful  belfries  sing  their  psalms  of  joy. 

Great  day  to  grace  the  records  of  renown. 
That  crowned  our  progress  with  an  iron  crown. 
The  prize  is  won ;  our  happiest  fortune  smiles  ; 
Our  path  is  open  to  the  Indian  isles. 
The  triumph  latest,  greatest,  grandest,  best. 
Performed  the  nuptials  of  the  East  and  West. 


OCCASIONAL.  251 


What  have  we  gained  ?     What  prestige  have  we  more 
Than  worlds  of  people  that  have  gone  before  ? 
'Twere  worthless  riches  won  with  years  of  cost, 
If  in  a  day  the  treasure  might  be  lost. 
Our  progress  still  this  confidence  imparts  — 
In  losing,  we  shall  mourn  no  more  lost  arts. 
Among  our  conquests,  be  they  great  or  small. 
The  Art  Preservative  o'ertops  them  all. 


FIELD  AND  WORK. 


PRESS  ASSOCIATION  ADDRESS. 


ET  US  look  a  little  over  the  field  and  inspect 
W^J   some  of  the  work  done,  in  view  of  the  best 
economy  and  possible  improvement  in  what  is 
^^^  still  to  do. 

The  field  —  wide  as  the  world  —  lies  open  before 
all  eyes ;  yet  there  are  people  who  spend  their  lives 
and  energies  hunting  for  it,  and  never  find  it.  The 
work  is  everywhere,  bearing  the  impress  of  human 
toil  and  pain,  teaching  its  lessons  of  development  and 
progress  by  history  and  monumental  piles,  yet  there 
are  earnest  students  who  never  understand  it.  They 
feel  that  they  are  capable  of  something ;  they  desire 
to  act  some  part ;  they  see  plenty  of  room ;  they 
dream  of  possibilities,  yet  they  never  resolve  where 
to  go,  or  what  to  do.  They  fail  to  find  the  field 
that  lies  spread  before  them,  and  they  can  not  par- 
ticipate in  work  which  they  do  not  comprehend. 
They  are  so  many  barren  lives. 

In  treating  our  theme  —  wide  as  it  is  —  we  can  only 
hope  to  drop  a  few  scattered  hints  and  suggestions 
for  those  who  would  be  productive  toilers  if  they 
could,   and   save,    if  possible,    some  of  the   human 


OCCASIONAL.  253 


waste,  the    evidences    of  which  we   see  around  us 
every  day. 

When  we  contemplate  the  diversity  of  thought- 
systems,  and  the  variety  of  civilizations  they  have 
built,  it  is  no  great  marvel  that  even  trained  minds 
are  often  confused  and  bewildered  in  regard  to  the 
special  work  for  which  they  are  best  fitted  by  nature 
and  education.  They  feel  an  undefined  desire  to  go 
somewhere,  and  power  to  do  something,  but  are  puz- 
zled as  to  the  where  and  what  ?  School  culture  has 
given  them  at  best  only  the  alphabet  of  education  — 
the  key  to  open  the  door  of  a  career.  It  is  still  a 
question  whether  they  ever  learn  to  read  life,  or  find 
the  way  of  their  true  future  and  best  fortune. 

In  the  multiplicity  and  confusion  of  aims  and 
efforts,  motives  and  methods,  systems  and  opinions, 
doctrines  and  dogmas,  creeds  and  beliefs,  fretting  and 
foaming  like  a  whirlpool,  they  may  be  dashed  into 
the  right  channel  by  accident,  or  they  may  drift  far 
away  from  hope. 

A  few  exceptionally  strong  natures  battle  with  the 
surging  tides  and  force  their  way  to  an  objective 
point  as  directly  as  the  needle  seeks  the  magnetic 
pole.  They  are  polarized  with  the  aspirations  and 
activity  of  the  people  from  whom  they  spring  and 
become  the  instruments  of  the  general  thought  and 
purpose.  They  are  the  inventors,  the  discoverers, 
the  philosophers,  the  poets,  the  workers  —  in  a  word 
which  comprehends  all  endeavor  and  achievement  — 
they  are  the  world-builders. 

The  various  great  civilizations  which  girdle  the 
globe  have  carved  their  lines,  engraved  their  features, 


254  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

and  set  their  types  upon  the  solid  earth,  from  which, 
if  there  were  no  other  records,  it  would  be  possible 
to  print  their  several  histories.  They  are  so  posi- 
tively distinct  in  feature,  language  and  character  that 
it  is  evident  upon  their  faces  each  developed  itself 
independently. 

The  best  example  of  independent  race  develop- 
ment that  can  be  given  we  find  at  home  in  a  branch 
of  the  Aryan  race — our  own  —  and  a  type  of  the 
Semitic  —  the  Hebrew  —  living  side  by  side  and 
natural  aliens.  Origin  indelibly  stamps  the  Jewish 
clay,  and  there  is  no  root  relationship  whatever  be- 
tween the  Hebrew  and  any  Aryan  tongue.  The  Jew 
is  adamant,  or  he  would  have  been  long  ago  crushed 
and  ground  to  powder  between  the  upper  and  the 
nether  millstones  of  action  and  immovability.  He  is 
primitive  rock  eternal  beneath  the  strata  of  ages. 

The  Hebrews  gave  Christendom  its  religion,  which 
must  not  be  confounded  with  civilization.  The  mass 
of  our  culture,  and  the  general  character  of  all  Indo- 
Germanic  civilization,  descended  to  us  from  the 
Aryans  through  the  channel  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
The  literature  and  art  of  Athens  and  Rome  are  our 
own  race  products  and  treasures,  while  we  drew  none 
of  our  aesthetic  culture  from  Jerusalem.  Neither  our 
civilization  nor  refinement  is  higher  at  this  age  than 
that  of  Greece  two  thousand  years  ago,  which  owed 
nothing  to  a  then  unborn  religion  of  Semitic  origin. 
The  Hebrew  language,  an  alien,  has  had  no  effect 
whatever  upon  any  of  the  Indo-Germanic  family  of 
tongues,  and  a  religion  descended  from  the  Jews  has 
barely  marked  or  modified  a  civilization  descended 


OCCASIONAL.  255 


from  the  Aryans.  Each  race  preserves  its  own 
physical,  mental  and  moral  features,  and  does  its 
own  world's  work. 

Whether  or  not  the  several  races  of  men  came 
from  a  common  stock,  they  are  widely  separated 
now,  as  if  each  great  continent  and  the  outlying 
islands  had  been  man-producing,  certainly  as  they 
were  plant-producrng.  The  general  result,  as  we 
behold  it  in  the  peopled  belt  of  the  world,  is  not 
affected  by  the  question  whether  the  human  kind, 
and  every  other  animal  after  his  kind,  sprang  from 
one  pair  or  many  sources  —  wherever  the  natural 
conditions  stimulated  their  production. 

One  race  of  men  taken  as  a  whole  has  no  family 
fraternity  or  human  sympathy  with  another  and  the 
lesson  of  history  is  that,  when  the  necessity  arises  or 
occasion  comes,  the  stronger  race  always  hunts  down 
and  finally  exterminates  the  weaker.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, the  former  Indian  owners  of  this  wide  land. 
What  has  become  of  them  and  their  domain  ? 

Our  civilization  killed  the  savage  simply  because  it 
had  use  for  his  home.  It  was  necessary  that  a  New 
World  should  be  discovered  and  opened  as  a  refuge 
for  the  teeming  populations  and  the  oppressed  classes 
of  the  Old,  and  our  structure  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty  was  founded  in  blood  of  human  sacrifices  and 
cost  the  life  of  a  whole  race  of  men. 

The  few  descendants  of  the  patriarchal  Powhatans 
that  remain  are  penned  up  in  the  sunset  wilds,  in 
process  of  slow  but  sure  extinction.  And  in  deference 
to  a  certain  compunctious  sentimentality  this  linger- 
ing  death  to  which  the  last  Indian  is  irrevocably 


256         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

doomed  is  called  humanitarian  policy.  It  is  needless 
to  instance  other  conflicts  of  the  stronger  with  the 
weaker  races,  as  the  fate  of  the  aboriginal  American 
brings  the  subject  and  proof  directly  home. 

Yet  our  own  boasted  enlightenment,  which  has 
replaced  one  form  of  barbarism  and  savagery,  has 
bred  and  reared  as  a  natural  product  more  cannibals 
than  ever  swarmed  in  the  terrible  islands  of  the  South 
Sea.  ^ 

The  rich  and  powerful  financial  juggler  sits  in  his 
enchanted  chair  and  manipulates  stocks  with  marvel- 
ous sleight-of-hand,  disclosing  exhaustless  golden 
treasure.  Charmed  by  the  treacherous  glitter  the 
beholder  is  caught.  It  is  a  short  battle  of  spider  and 
fly,  and  the  cannibalistic  Mammon  feeds.  The  desti- 
tution, misery  and  death  that  follow  are  laid  to  the 
charge  of  other  causes,  but  the  South  Sea  Islander 
of  good  society  has  had  his  human  feast. 

Even  merchants  of  great  respectability  and  high 
standing  are  not  averse  to  "  getting  up  corners  "  on 
honest  produce,  coaxing  their  friends  in  and  "  squeez- 
ing them  out,"  as  it  is  called  in  commercial  parlance. 
But  they  swallow  them  as  easily  and  innocently  as 
they  would  an  oyster.  A  fish  that  devours  its  kind 
may  get  enough  of  it,  but  the  appetite  of  the  human 
shark  is  never  sated.  There  are  laws  against  petty 
gambling  and  small  swindling  schemes,  but  what  law 
can  ever  reach  the  princely  speculator,  who  plays  his 
own  cards  to  win,  when  commercial  courtesy  calls  it 
a  legitimate  game  ? 

So  the  strong,  both  as  nations  and  individuals,  prey 
upon  the  weak  —  Jew  and  Gentile,  Christian  and  pa- 


OCCASIONAL.  257 


gan,  civilized  and  savage  —  the  whole  world  over. 
The  methods  simply  vary  according  to  the  different 
constitutions  and  appetites  of  the  people.  Might  is 
made  right  in  fact  and  effect,  if  not  so  held  in 
theory. 

Mankind  are  but  men  —  no  matter  how  much,  or 
how  little  civilization  they  have  taken  on,  or  what  the 
character  of  the  culture .  No  matter  how  smooth  and 
fair  the  outside  may  be,  the  savage  lurks  under  a  very 
thin  crust  of  veneer  and  shine  of  varnish,  and  is 
quickly  reached  and  roused  when  pierced  by  provo- 
cation. Thus  crude  human  nature  sticks  to  the  most 
modern  improvements  in  humanity,  and  if  anybody 
doubts  it  let  him  look  into  himself  and  see. 

Even  the  judiciary  —  the  highest  expression  of 
civil  enlightenment,  and,  in  theory,  exempt  from  the 
warp  of  passion,  prejudice  or  interest — has  in  many 
lands  laid  itself  open  to  suspicion  upon  great  ques- 
tions involving  possessions,  aggrandizement  and 
power.  There  is  an  old  reproach  that  every  man  has 
his  price,  and  abundant  past  experience  has  gone  to 
prove  it  true. 

It  may  not  be  always  in  coin  or  emolument,  but 
there  is  some  way  to  that  weakness  which,  when 
touched  and  wakened,  is  uncontrollable  strength  and 
asserts  the  supremacy  of  human  nature  in  human 
affairs.  Judges  can  not  be  debarred  from  having  hu- 
man passions,  holding  political  opinions,  and  belong- 
ing to  party;  yet  the  office  which  weighs  evidence 
and  administers  law  should  be  held  forever  free  from 
the  taint  of  party  and^ color  of  partisanship.  But 
judges   make  history,  and  when  parties  and  condi- 


258  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

tions  have  passed  away  their  record  stands  for  the 
criticism  and  judgment  of  the  future. 

We  have  been  speaking  of  a  human  nature  as 
fundamental  and  paramount,  above  moral  and  intel- 
lectual culture  and  all  the  cultivated  sentiments,  when 
brought  to  bay  and  driven  to  the  test,  and  this  brings 
us  to  the  consideration  of  the  natural  man  as  ever  the 
predominant  element  in  the  human  being.  Let  us 
look  the  facts  squarely  in  the  face  and  judge  things 
simply  as  we  see  and  know  them. 

Man  deserves  more  credit  than  he  has  ever  got,  or 
is  ever  likely  to  get,  for  what  he  has  made  of  himself 
from  the  raw  material.  In  his  mighty  work  of  im- 
provement which  has  not  merely  remodelled  and  re- 
plenished, but  re-created  the  earth,  he  is  saddled 
with,  and  patiently  bears,  all  the  blame  of  wickedness 
and  evil,  and  receives  no  credit  for  good.  The  model 
balance-sheet  of  life,  as  held  up  before  him  from  in- 
fancy, does  not  look  like  a  fair  estimate  and  account. 
He  is  nothing,  he  can  know  nothing,  he  can  do  nothing. 
Life  is  nothing ;  yet  he  is  charged  with  duties  and 
burdened  with  debts  which  he  can  not  pay,  and  then 
a  balance  is  struck  with  the  unknown  quantity  of  a 
hereafter.  It  is  a  most  pathetic  page  —  that  balance- 
sheet  of  life  —  all  ciphers,  except  the  great  debt,  and 
how  far  man  has  been  responsible  for  this  one- 
sided computation  of  accounts  against  himself  can 
never  be  known. 

The  accident  of  clothes  and  the  physical  results  of 
their  unnatural  condition ;  the  faculty  of  speech  — 
not  the  gift  of  language,  which  is  as  clearly  a  human 
invention  as  a  steam  engine ;  the  capacity  to  transmit 


OCCASIONAL.  259 


knowledge,  and  the  power  of  self-improvement, 
doubtlessly  caused  him  to  make  a  wide  distinction 
between  himself  and  other  orders  of  the  animal 
kingdom.  He  tried  to  cut  himself  loose  from 
the  harmonious  system  of  animated  nature,  ignored 
or  destroyed,  as  the  stronger  rival  annihilates 
the  weaker,  his  nearest  brute  conditions  or  rela- 
tions, if  you  will,  and  the  "  missing  link  "  is  hard 
to  find. 

After  having  done  so  much  and  isolated  his  type 
unconsciously,  came  the  very  natural  desire  to  ac- 
count for  himself,  fathom  his  origin  and  solve  the 
problem  of  his  destiny.  The  mute  inquiry  of  the 
Egyptian  Sphinx  is  the  riddle  of  the  world  —  still 
unanswered  —  while  the  enigmatical  appealing  face 
looks  over  desert  sands  and  thunders  stony  silence 
down  the  centuries.  What  are  termed  the  inspired 
writings  deal  with  this  problem,  but  there  are  many 
"  holy  books  '*  of  antiquity  widely  differing  in  matter 
and  statement,  each  one  of  which  satisfies  only  small 
fractions  of  mankind  with  its  solution. 

Among^them  are  the  Buddha  gospels  of  Sakamuni, 
the  Moral  Philosophy  of  Confucius,  the  Vedas  of  the 
Indian  Brahma,  the  Zend  Avesta  of  the  Fire  Wor- 
shippers, the  Laws  of  Moses,  the  historical  and  de- 
votional epics  of  the  Hebrew  Prophets,  the  Songs  of 
David,  the  Wisdom  of  Solomon,  the  words  of  Jesus, 
the  epistles  of  Paul  and  the  Koran  of  Mahomet. 
These  furnish  the  ground-work  for  a  multitude  of 
moral  codes  and  religions,  and  are  the  special  heri- 
tage of  theology.  They  gave  rise  to  various  systems 
of  human  worship  of  superior  beings  and  symbols 


26o 


THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 


of  power  conceived  to  be  above,  before  and  after 
the  world. 

Theology  has  its  formulated  dogmas,  principles 
and  creeds,  colleges,  students  and  professors;  is 
taught  like  a  science  and  Held  up  as  eternal  truth. 
It  embraces  and  promulgates  the  doctrines  of  the 
spiritual  and  supernatural.  Its  field  is  the  unseen. 
Many  regard  it  as  the  unknown  —  beyond  the  bounds 
of  space  and  time.  Its  work  is  not  of  the  world  and 
its  product,  the  revealed  religion  of  one  people  or 
sect,  is  rank  superstition  to  another;  theology  or 
mythology  according  to  creed. 

Physical  science  digs  in  the  earth  for  its  treasures 
of  truth  and  explores  the  heavens  for  the  key  to 
unlock  the  mysteries  of  infinitude.  It  reads  the 
records  on  the  rocks,  resurrects  buried  worlds, 
breathes  the  warmth  of  life  into  prehistoric  bones, 
and  soars  to  the  sun  for  light  on  the  problem  of  the 
evolution,  magnitude,  composition  and  constitution 
of  the  systems. 

Thus  physical  science  has  dragged  out  of  the  earth 
and  drawn  from  the  stars  masses  of  facts  upon  which 
it  has  built  its  theories  of  the  age,  beginning  and 
development  of  things.  It  is  found  that  theology  and 
geology,  for  instance,  do  not  agree  either  upon  facts 
or  deductions,  and  their  ancient  variance  has  espe- 
cially stimulated  the  best  mental  efforts  of  this  won- 
derfully working  and  coldly  critical  age. 

The  conflict  between  physical  science  and  spiritual 
theology  is  the  absorbing  business  and  theme  of 
thought  and  persistent  topic  of  our  time,  and  most 
of  us   have  taken  sides.     The  antagonism  is  often 


OCCASIONAL.  261 


styled  Science  vs.  Religion,  which  is  not  a  correct 
statement  of  the  contest,  because  man  is  a  worship- 
ing animal,  and  all  men  have  a  religion. 

The  religious  sentiment  is  universal,  and  man  must 
worship  something.  If  he  has  no  revelation  of  a  God, 
he  makes  one  of  gold  or  brass,  or  stone,  or  wood, 
or  himself.  The  professors  of  theology  and  geology 
are  free  to  settle  their  incongruities  and  differences 
among  themselves.  They  are  equally  able  to  sift 
and  take  care  of  truth,  and  that  is  what  both  sets  of 
professors  profess  to  desire,  and  we  of  the  secular 
press  have  only  to  record  the  results  as  they  come. 
The  great  controversy  in  one  shape  and  another  is 
already  a  four  or  five  thousand  years'  war,  has  slain 
its  millions  upon  millions  of  men,  and  the  probability 
is  we  shall  not  see  the  covenant  of  peace  on  earth 
signed  and  sealed.  Meanwhile  the  mingled  shouts 
of  the  devotee,  the  wails  of  woe  and  the  shrieks  of 
torture  fly  upward  as  sparks  and  smoke  from  beneath 
the  wheels  of  Juggernaut  as  they  roll  and  rumble 
round  all  the  world. 

These  mysteries  of  cause  and  consequence  and 
human  responsibility  to  supernal  power,  while  they 
chiefly  involve  matters  not  of  this  world,  have  wielded 
more  influence  in  the  affairs  of  man  than  all  the 
demonstrated  facts  with  which  humanity  has  had  to 
deal.  If  man  beUeves  in  gods  above  him,  he  is  sure 
to  frame  laws  above  him,  that  is,  laws  which  are  su- 
perior to  the  moral  sense  of  the  people  they  are 
meant  to  govern.  Such  laws,  though  made  by  rep- 
resentatives, are  not  representative.  They  are  there- 
fore  inoperative   shams   of  a   moral   standard  that 


262         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

does  not  exist.  They  were  enacted  in  fear,  and  from 
a  superficial  sentiment  of  duty  —  a  yoke  which  has 
made  a  large  portion  of  mankind  voluntary  slaves. 

All  acts  ought  to  be  works  of  love,  warm  with 
heart  devotion,  and  then  duty  would  have  nothing  to 
do.  The  language  of  the  highest  culture  that  it  may 
be  possible  to  build  would  have  no  use  for  the  word 
duty  in  its  vocabulary.  All  its  work  would  be  done 
for  love,  because  the  workers  could  not  help  the 
doing  of  it.  Duty  in  such  a  state  of  society  would 
appear  like  a  cripple  hobbling  along  at  the  tail  of  a 
vast  procession  begging  alms.  The  moralists  some- 
times begin  at  the  wrong  end  of  the  lesson  to 
teach. 

We  owe  no  duty  of  thanks  for  the  good  things 
that  grow  for  us  to  eat.  Human  food  was  before  the 
human  race,  and  without  it  in  its  natural  shape  the 
type  would  have  been  impossible.  It  is  physically 
responsible  for  the  human  being  and  must  take  care 
of  him.  He  grows  up  by  it  and  it  builds  his  body 
what  it  is.  Rivers  are  not  made  to  run  past  cities 
for  the  benefits  of  necessary  commerce.  The  city 
was  founded  because  the  river  was  there  ready  run- 
ning, and  the  water  power  aided  its  growth.  But  the 
masses  of  men  have  bowed  their  necks  to  a  few 
tyrants,  and  the  tyrants  are  inexorable  in  enforcing 
a  moral  obligation  of  duty,  which  makes  every  con- 
scientious man  a  coward —  afraid  his  neighbor  will 
discover  that  he  is  not  good  as  he  pretends  to  be. 

This  is  the  situation  that  the  sentiment  of  duty, 
with  no  quality  or  impulse  of  love  in  it,  has  forced 
upon  society.     Let  any  man  examine  his  own  moral 


OCCASIONAL.  263 


condition  and  his  relations  to  a  circle  of  friends, 
under  the  laws  made  to  govern  him,  and  he  will  be 
satisfied  of  the  fact.  Make  Duty  the  loyal  hand- 
maid of  Love,  and  not  the  imperious,  exacting  mas- 
ter, and  all  will  be  well. 

By  examination  of  what  are  called  **  holy  books  " 
of  all  the  races  it  will  be  found  that,  at  least  so  far 
as  this  earth  is  concerned,  they  reveal  nothing  be^ 
yond  the  bounds  of  the  human  knowledge  of  the 
times  that  gave  them  birth,  or  above  the  intelligence 
and  enlightenment  of  the  people.  They  are  the 
crystalHzed  wisdom  of  the  mental  and  moral  systems 
whence  they  sprang. 

Man  has  had  to  fight  his  way  up  the  craggy  steps  of 
Time  and  make  his  points  and  stages  of  progress  by 
hard  knocks.  He  has  waged  a  constant  warfare  with 
the  savage  within  himself,  and  the  barbarian  often 
got  the  better  of  him.  He  has  built,  torn  down,  and 
rebuilt  systems  innumerable.  He  has  demolished 
gods  and  demons  of  his  own  imagination  that  inter- 
cepted every  step  of  his  onward  course.  In  his  ig- 
norance he  has  slain  his  own  prophets.  He  has  been 
driven  back  to  new  beginnings.  His  accepted  deities 
armed  with  conservative  traditions  and  guarded  by 
sacred  battalions  have  ever  opposed  his  progress,  and 
against  all  these  barriers,  disadvantages  and  disasters 
he  has  gone  on  conquering  and  to  conquer  the 
legions  and  domains  of  savage  nature.  "  Inspired 
writings "  never  taught  him  how  to  build  a  house, 
sail  a  ship,  or  make  a  telescope.  They  treat  of 
higher  and  unseen  things,  and  solely  promote  spirit- 
ual  elevation  —  set   above   the   plane  of  the  mere 


264  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

mental  and  moral,  which  latter  have  to  do  chiefly 
with  physical  facts. 

Now  all  that  man  positively  knows  of  himself  is 
that  he  is  a  physical  fact.  All  his  progress  has  been 
iconoclastic.  Whenever  he  has  diverged  from  the 
beaten  track  of  his  times  he  has  found  a  god,  or  the 
representative  of  a  god,  in  the  way  to  forbid  his  ad- 
vance, and  the  course  of  Reason's  empire  is  thickly 
strewn  with  broken  idols.  After  they  are  demol- 
ished and  passed  we  look  back  with  sympathetic  pity 
on  so  many  once  regarded  and  respected  deities  de- 
throned and  shattered.  Their  lingering,  mourning 
worshippers  have  at  least  won  the  glory  of  persecut- 
ing to  death  the  philosophers  and  reformers  who 
pointed  out  the  new  ways  and  the  new  life  to  the 
world.  They  lived  and  died  for  men ;  their  graves 
are  on  their  battle-fields  and  their  creations  are  their 
monuments.  The  truths  they  discovered  and  for 
which  they  suffered  are  adopted  and  taught  in  the 
schools  that  condemned  them  as  heretical,  and  this 
records  their  everlasting  triumph. 

To  us  now  the  hovering  gods  of  Olympus,  direct- 
ing the  battles  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  and  the  pious 
praying  a  threatening  comet  out  of  modern  Europe 
are  all  the  same.  The  Greeks  won  their  victories 
and  transmitted  the  benefits,  and  the  comet  disap- 
peared without  fiery  collision  with  Christendom. 

All  men  are  beHevers  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer 
of  some  kind  and  in  some  way.  There  is  at  least 
one  form  of  prayer  in  which  all  nations  and  kindreds 
and  peoples  and  tongues  can  j  oin  —  work,  —  the  work 
of  world-building,  the  work  of  charity  and  brother- 


OCCASIONAL.  265 


hood,  the  work  of  man  for  man.  This  universal 
prayer  of  the  human  race,  notwithstanding  all  the 
impediments  in  its  utterance,  has  been  abundantly- 
answered. 

The  electric  telegraph  is  the  answer  of  the  prayer 
for  speed ;  the  steam  engine  is  the  answer  of  the 
prayer  for  power ;  our  great  republic  is  the  answer 
of  the  prayer  for  freedom ;  the  printing  press  and 
free  school  are  answers  to  solemn  prayers  for  light 
and  universal  education.  Work  is  prayer — work 
of  haiilis,  brains,  and  heart ;  work  for  love  of  work, 
and  not  simply  to  supply  the  necessities  of  life  ;  the 
ants  and  the  beavers  and  the  bees  do  as  much. 

What  shall  we  do  ?  First,  cultivate  the  general 
principle  of  individual  human  responsibility  and  ele- 
vate man  to  a  truer  estimate  of  himself,  his  work  and 
his  mission  on  earth.  The  human  mind  is  micro- 
scopic rather  than  telescopic. 

More  positive  and  exact  knowledge,  and  more 
practical  discoveries  have  been  gained  under  the 
microscope  than  through  the  telescope.  The  micro- 
scope is  a  dissector  and  an  analyzer.  The  telescope 
is  in  some  sense  a  speculator  and  dreamer. 

The  former  essentially  belongs  to  earth,  the  latter 
to  the  illimitable,  unfathomable  and  incomprehen- 
sible heavens.  The  discovery  of  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion was  microscopic  in  its  nature,  and  will  serve  to 
illustrate  the  general  principle.  The  discoverer  was 
looking  down,  then,  not  up,  and  the  instrument  is 
said  to  have  been  so  common  a  thing  as  an  apple. 
With  our  mortal  eyes  we  never  find  a  jewel  except 
by  looking  at  the  earth  and  things  earthy.     To  feel 


266  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

our  way  safely  in  the  dark  we  naturally  grasp  what 
is  nearest  to  us,  and  so  strive  to  reach  the  light. 
That  method  is  the  way  to  all  discoveries,  and  the 
rule  of  successful  lives. 

Many  people  despise  familiar  things  as  small  or 
common,  forgetting  that  it  is  only  through  intelligent 
observation  and  attention  to  little  things  that  great 
works  are  done.  They  look  up  and  far  away  where 
there  is  no  landing-place  for  the  eye  —  lost  in  cloud- 
lands  —  and  neglect  things  near  at  hand,  and  possible 
treasures  at  their  feet.  They  wait  for  the  inspiration 
of  genius,  which  never  comes,  for  genius  itself  is  a 
worker,  and  produces  nothing  except  by  toil  and 
suffering.     Every  birth  involves  agony. 

Let  the  young  seize  opportunity  at  once,  wherever 
there  is  a  vacant  place  to  lay  hold  of  honest  work, 
and  soon  a  career  will  seize  them  and  labor  will  be 
transfigured  into  interest  and  crowned  by  achieve- 
ment. The  true  starting  point  is  not  what  one  had 
best  do,  but  what  one  can  do  best. 

A  man  knows  whether  he  can  write  a  good  hand ; 
whether  he  is  quick  at  figures ;  whether  he  has  the 
knack  of  mechanism,  or  the  feeling  of  art,  or  whether 
he  has  wealth  of  ideas  and  a  flow  of  language  to 
make  a  torrent  of  eloquence.  A  little  thought  in 
this  direction  at  the  beginning  might  save  many  a 
life-mistake  and  greatly  reduce  if  not  entirely  pre- 
vent what  we  have  termed  human  waste.  Two 
stumbHng-blocks  are  often  fatal  at  the  very  start  — 
shame  of  confessing  ignorance  by  asking  informa- 
tion, and  throwing  away  one's  own  talents  and 
power  to  be  somebody  by  misusing  them  to  develop 


OCCASIONAL.  267 


one's  self  into  somebody  else.  Thus  a  burden  of 
ignorance  is  taken  up  for  life,  and  men  are  not 
themselves.  People,  good  for  something,  get  into 
the  wrong  places,  and  are  good  for  nothing.  They 
do  no  part  of  the  world's  work. 

Journalism  is  well  acquainted  with  these  good 
people  in  the  wrong  places,  for  it  is  the  province 
of  the  Argus-eyed  press  to  note  incompetency  and 
other  public  abuses  wherever  they  appear,  while  it 
has  also  its  own  burdens  of  this  character  to  bear. 

To  get  into  the  other  professions,  some  sort  of 
special  schooling  and  training,  and  a  proof  of  fitness 
are  prerequisite ;  but  it  seems  every  one  thinks 
that  he  is  a  born  journalist,  and  can  write  for  the 
papers.  He  fails  as  a  lawyer,  or  a  doctor,  or  a  cler- 
gyman, or  in  any  other  profession  or  calling,  and,  as 
a  forlorn  hope,  it  occurs  to  him  that  he  must  be  a 
newspaper  man. 

The  peculiar  institutions  and  rapid  development 
of  this  country  have  made  it  possible  for  a  great 
many  people  to  get  into  the  wrong  places,  but 
experiments  —  both  successes  and  failures  —  have 
made  equally  valuable  discoveries. 

In  the  Old  World  men  are  born  and  bred  in  the 
stations  and  professions  of  their  fathers,  and  it  is 
very  difficult  for  them  to  get  cut  out  of  the  ancestral 
grooves.  In  the  New  they  may  rise  from  the  slums 
to  the  highest  places,  which  possibility  offers  a  stand- 
ing premium  for  men  to  do  their  best. 

Time  was  when  man  carved  his  records  on  stone 
and  built  towers  for  the  preservation  of  the  knowl- 
edge  he   had   gained   and  the  civilization   he  had 


268  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   MUSES. 

wrought.  The  writing  was  rubbed  out,  and  the 
towers  crumbled  and  fell. 

When  books  came,  the  accumulated  knowledge 
was  stored  in  one  great  library,  and  the  torch  that 
fired  it  burned  the  world,  which  was  long  crawling 
out  of  its  own  ashes,  and  suffered  loss  irreparable. 
The  printing-press  has  made  such  another  destruc- 
tion and  loss  impossible,  for  it  pours  its  treasures 
of  thought  into  thousands  of  libraries  and  millions  of 
homes.  The  printing-press  stands  in  the  breach 
of  danger,  a  mighty  power — a  creator —  creating  a 
new  world  every  day  and  every  hour  in  the  day, 
while  the  sun  —  its  celestial  symbol  —  makes  his  all- 
beholding  rounds. 

Let  us  maintain  and  strive  to  elevate  the  dignity 
of  our  profession  and  truly  appreciate  our  responsi- 
bilities, both  as  builders  and  defenders,  using  facts 
instead  of  misrepresentation,  and  argument  and  logic 
instead  of  abuse  and  invective,  to  fight  our  battles 
for  human  rights  and  liberties  and  the  disenthral- 
ment  of  mankind. 

Of  this  let  all  be  sure :  The  greatest  fortune  a 
man  can  inherit  or  win  is  the  ability  to  find  the 
proper  field  for  his  energies  and  talents ;  and  there 
is  nothing  permanently  valuable  in  this  world  that 
we  live  in  but  the  work  we  do. 


<^W^ 

rA^j^gt 

»!^^^v!^ll^sv!^:  ■; 

THE    DRAMA  — A   RESPONSE, 


SHALL  endeavor  to  speak  for  the  drama,  to 
which  work  your  generous  partiaHty  has  called 
me. 

^  When  you  say  that  the  drama  is  "  the  heart 
of  literature  and  the  concentration  of  all  literary 
thought,"  you  utter  a  sentiment  which  is  peculiarly 
comprehensive  and  just.  You  hit  the  nail  of  fact 
squarely  on  the  head  and  drive  it  home,  and  there 
seems  to  be  nothing  further  to  say,  and  no  use  in 
making  any  more  noise  about  it.  But  every  fact 
holds  its  inherent  reasons,  and  the  action  of  this 
great  literary  heart  —  the  drama  —  must  have  its 
philosophy.     We  shall  see. 

When  a  system,  or  a  science,  or  a  branch  of  liter- 
ature is  accredited  by  the  whole  civilized  world,  the 
universal  recognition  implies  a  harmony,  or  a  truth, 
or  a  well-spring  of  thought  congenital  with  humanity 
itself.  Let  us  consider  the  drama  as  such  a  branch 
of  literature,  and  penetrate,  if  we  can,  the  secret  of 
its  power  over  people.  For  our  present  purpose, 
the  stages  of  intellectual  advance  from  the  starting- 
point  of  social  communion  may  be  ranked,  first, 
oratory;  next,  the  drama;  then  the  epic  song 
which  bears  historic  fruit;  and,  last  and  highest, 
philosophy. 


2/0         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

The  drama  had  its  origin  among  the  very  roots 
of  language  and  spread  its  growth  through  all 
tongues.  Children's  plays  were  the  first  plays,  and 
the  children  are  playing  them  still.  It  is  natural 
that  the  early  tricklings  of  thought,  after  long  wind- 
ing through  the  mazes  of  tradition,  and  taking  the 
character  of  accumulated  knowedge  on  the  way, 
should  first  find  permanent  expression  in  recorded 
conversations.  This  suggested  the  drama.  The 
clash  of  mind  against  mind,  heart  against  heart, 
soul  against  soul,  in  living  dialogue  strikes  passion's 
fire  for  the  crucible  of  truth.  The  antagonisms 
of  sentiments  and  opinions  and  interests  in  the 
dramatic  situation  are  the  flint  and  steel  of  that 
Promethian  spark  which  lights  and  warms  the 
world.  This  is  the  drama — a  crystallization  of 
knowledge  gained  and  wisdom  attained,  and  its 
structure  preserves  the  elements  of  oratory  which 
preceded  it. 

So  the  drama  has  seized  upon  and  fashioned  to 
its  purpose  the  treasures  of  legendary  lore,  epic 
heroics,  historic  fields  and  figures,  philosophic,  so- 
cial, moral  and  even  sacred  themes ;  in  fact,  many 
of  the  holy  books  themselves  are  written  in  the 
dramatic  style.  It  has  thus  linked  itself  to  all  the 
uses  of  language  in  the  communication  and  trans- 
mission of  thought,  pervading  all  with  its  essence 
and  its  life.  So  it  has  grown  up  through  all  the 
stages  and  phases  of  human  aspiration,  and  effort, 
and  inquiry,  and  discovery,  winding  its  sinewy  coils 
through  and  around  the  vast  riches  of  mentality  with 
a  proprietary  right. 


OCCASIONAL.  271 


Its  hunger  for  subjects  is  insatiable,  and  its  ca- 
pacity to  digest  and  mould  them  into  its  own  art- 
forms  is  illimitable,  embracing  as  it  does  in  its  scope 
of  forces  and  effects  all  grades  of  intelligence,  from 
brutish  instinct  to  godlike  reason.  It  gathers  its 
materials  all  along  the  pathway  of  man,  and  trans- 
mutes all  metals  of  motive  and  grains  of  thought 
into  its  own  gold.  It  stoops  to  the  lullabies  of 
Mother  Goose,  and  it  rises  to  the  songs  of  the 
prophets.  It  plays  every  strain  of  human  passion, 
in  every  condition  of  human  life  ;  and  it  soars  among 
the  stars  and  grasps  the  loftier  themes  of  science, 
philosophy  and  religion.  Its  dominion  is  universal 
and  its  daring  is  sublime. 

Say  what  may  be  said  —  and  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  empty  talk  about  the  decline  of  the  drama — it 
never  has  failed  or  faltered  in  strength  of  grasp,  nor 
has  it  retrograded  a  single  step.  It  is  fully  abreast 
with  Time,  and  leads  the  van  in  the  march  of  mind. 
Its  very  nature  is  development,  and  its  movement 
progress.  We  have  the  proof  of  this  imbedded  in 
our  own  language  —  solid  rock.  For  example,  the 
epic  is  accounted  the  higher  form  of  expression. 
The  absence  of  the  Iliad  would  certainly  make  a 
greater  blank  than  the  blotting  out  of  the  Pro- 
metheus, but  the  world  of  to-day  could  better  spare 
Paradise  Lost  than  Hamlet.  The  one  is  read  by  a 
few  scattered  students,  the  other  is  recited  by  a 
grand  chorus  of  civilized  man  that  rings  'round  the 
globe.  Here,  then,  in  our  own  tongue,  in  modern 
days,  the  drama  has  fought  the  battle  for  precedence 
with  the  epic,  and  has  won. 


272  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Strongly  seated  as  it  is  in  the  thought,  the  move- 
ment and  affection  of  mankind,  it  is  easy  to  discover 
the  secret  of  the  drama's  power.  It  is  the  human 
ingredient  in  it  that  gives  it  the  full  height,  breadth 
and  depth  of  humanity  itself.  Man  will  sympathize 
with  human  nature,  and  not  all  the  theories  and 
philosophies  ever  invented  can  lead  him  from  his 
kind,  or  cure  him  of  human  habits.  Where  his  inter- 
ests and  sympathies  are,  there  he  will  be  in  the 
majesty  and  supremacy  of  heart.  Lying  close  to 
the  heart  are  liberty,  enlightenment  and  progress  — 
involving  in  their  development  and  fruition  suffering 
and  happiness,  vice  and  virtue,  error  and  truth,  de- 
feat and  victory ;  the  drama  comprehends  them  all, 
and  arrays  and  wields  their  forces  in  the  manly 
struggle  for  greater  good. 

Look  at  the  drama  as  a  universal  educator.  It 
has  had  the  richest  wealth  of  time  and  toil  and  mind 
of  all  ages  poured  into  it  to  bear  interest  forever. 
Shakespeare,  its  grandest  exemplar  —  all  nature's 
heart  and  brain  —  still  at  the  end  of  three  hundred 
years  tops  the  intellect  of  the  world.  From  such  a 
height,  his  view  of  the  drama  and  the  actor's  art  will 
be  accepted  as  clear  and  sound.  He  did  not  say,  as 
many  suppose  he  did,  that  the  office  of  acting  is  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature,  but  *'  to  hold,  as  'twere, 
the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  "  apparently  a  very  small 
distinction,  which  makes  a  very  great  difference. 
Severe  nature,  a  bald  copy,  would  be  tiresomely 
stupid  in  presentation.  It  has  been  tried,  and  the 
flat  reahsm  failed.  It  is  the  ideal  and  not  the  real 
that  is  the  true  in  art.     It  is  the  type  and  not  the 


OCCASIONAL.  273 


individual  —  humanity  and  not  men  that  the  drama 
personifies.  The  dramatist  does  not  pick  up  the 
common  man  and  woman,  but  selects  the  excep- 
tional growth  and  development  of  man  out  of  the 
masses  for  models  of  character,  and  they  are  true  in 
the  art  perspective  of  the  stage — just  as  the  statue 
of  heroic  proportions  is  toned  to  nature  at  the  height 
of  its  pedestal.  These  figures  pass  into  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  people  as  models  of  virtue  and  heroism  to 
imitate,  or  monsters  of  vice  to  shun.  Such  concep- 
tions and  embodiments  become  electrified  with  the 
life  of  real  historic  persons,  and  live  and  act  with 
the  force  of  historical  figures.  The  realest  and  livest 
man  in  Switzerland  is  William  Tell,  and  yet  he 
was  conceived  in  the  brain  of  Goethe,  who  delivered 
the  embyro  hero  over  to  Schiller,  who  brought  him 
among  men  for  their  admiration  and  advancement. 
And  Tell  is  the  towering  Alpine  type.  So  of  other 
dramatic  heroes.  Thus  the  drama  gives  us  the 
higher  models  for  the  general  education.  They  are 
always  above  the  class  from  which  they  spring,  and 
to  which  they  appeal,  inviting  to  a  higher  plane 
of  intellectual  culture  and  aesthetic  enjoyment.  The 
vicious  man,  sitting  at  the  worst  play,  can  not  see  or 
hear  anything  so  rank  as  his  own  vice.  He  is  first 
caught  when  nothing  else  could  catch  him,  and 
then  led  up  and  educated ;  and,  taking  even  this 
low  grade  of  entertainment,  he  is  in  better  company 
and  surroundings  than  he  would  have  been  if  he 
had  not  gone  to  the  playhouse,  and  he  will  come 
away  so  much  the  better  man.  He  is  lured  through 
his  own  low  instincts,  if  you  will,  but  he  is  imme- 


2/4  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

diately  elevated  in  thought  and  sympathy  to  the 
higher  level  of  the  mimic  scene,  and  awakening 
reason's  transformation  makes  him  man. 

The  man  who  can  not  read  goes  to  the  play,  and 
sees  pictures  of  beauty  and  hears  lessons  of  history, 
heroism,  morality,  virtue  —  life.  And  he  is  educated. 
Into  the  same  company  come  the  cultured  student, 
the  man  of  letters,  the  learned  professor  and  the 
sage  philosopher,  and  they  are  educated  too,  for  the 
magic  of  the  drama  discloses  to  their  higher  under- 
standing a  still  higher  ideal  of  possible  being.  Thus, 
the  drama  educates  the  ignorant,  educates  the  edu- 
cated and  educates  the  educator  in  that  vast  temple 
where  the  dramatic  trinity,  Melpomene,  Thalia  and 
Euterpe,  minister  at  their  high  altar  of  rational 
entertainment  and  universal  enlightenment.  With 
this  spectacle  of  man  at  his  congenial,  intellectual 
pastime  and  happiest  mood,  in  plain  view  the  world 
over,  who  shall  say  that  the  drama  is  not  a  uni- 
versal educator  ? 

Of  what  is  known  as  the  modern  society  sensation, 
which  we  all  know  so  well,  little  need  be  said  par- 
ticularly. Much  of  it  is  not  legitimate,  either  in 
subject  or  treatment,  and  does  not  come  properly 
within  our  scope,  except  so  far  as  its  grade  and 
range  of  benefits  have  already  been  indicated.  It 
comes  from  the  hunger  of  the  genius  of  the  drama, 
and  is  another  proof  of  its  unbounded  capacity  to 
grasp  all  subjects,  compass  and  comprehend  all 
thought  and  take  the  great  round  world  in  its  arms. 

The  drama  speaks  all  tongues  and  is  equally  at 
home  in  all.     Its  English  is  the  crowning  triumph 


OCCASIONAL.  275 


of  human  utterance,  and  brings  all  the  kingdoms 
of  thought  under  the  universal  reign  of  Shakespeare. 
The  beautiful  green  island,  first  in  the  hearts  of  all 
her  sons  wherever  dispersed,  yielded  a  joyful  allegi- 
ance to  the  English  monarch  of  mind,  and  strength- 
ened and  glorified  his  eternal  empire  with  a  Sheridan 
and  a  Knowles  and  a  Shiel  —  proud  names  in  the 
annals  of  literature  and  bright  gems  in  Ireland's 
crown. 

To  bring  the  subject  home,  the  American  drama 
is  an  unsolved  problem.  The  first  American  drama 
worthy  of  the  designation  has  yet  to  be  written. 
Many  American  subjects  have  been  treated  in  the 
dramatic  style,  but  the  results  have  not  risen  to 
the  dignity  of  a  distinct  American  type  in  dramatic 
literature. 

American  harvesters  have  been  busy  in  this  field, 
but  their  scanty  gleanings  have  been  swallowed  up 
by  current  consumption.  They  have  established  no 
world's  granary  and  have  saved  no  grain  for  seed. 
Our  artists,  both  authors  and  actors,  have  found  and 
portrayed  the  excrescences  of  American  character, 
but  they  have  no  frames  or  places  for  their  pictures 
because  they  have.constructed  no  drama.  American 
authors  have  done  nobly  with  foreign  subjects,  but 
the  tone  and  treatment  have  been  purely  English. 
They  have  drunk  inspiration  at  the  fountain  of 
Shakespeare,  which  exhausts  all  the  English  springs. 
They  feel  the  dramatic  impulse,  but  they  have  not 
learned  the  secret  of  conception  or  struck  the  key 
of  expression.  There  is  somewhere  a  new  way  to 
an  undiscovered  mine.     The  conditions  in  the  New 


2/6         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

World  are  so  different  from  those  of  the  Old  that 
they  will  not  permit  the  same  treatment.  Premising 
a  correspondence  here  that  does  not  exist,  is  just 
where  a  long  succession  of  errors  and  failures  be- 
gins. Dramas  are  built  of  the  bones  and  sinews 
and  all  the  tangible  materials  and  productive  forces 
of  human  society,  and  breathed  full  of  its  living 
soul.  The  friction  of  the  classes  —  always  at  war 
with  each  other  —  coming  in  sharp  contact  and  col- 
lision, yet  never  mixing,  generates  the  heat  of  dra- 
matic action.  Where  the  classes  are  in  rough-shod 
antagonism,  the  conflicting  elements  and  interests 
point  the  dramatic  way.  Now,  there  is  only  one 
grade  of  society  in  republican  America  which  is 
no  society  at  all  in  the  sense  of  class.  No  man  is 
anchored  to  the  condition  of  caste.  Any  man  may 
rise  from  the  lowest  condition  to  the  highest  posi- 
tion. The  old  society  lines  are  therefore  broken, 
and  the  promiscuous  mingling  of  masses  makes  no 
sufficient  fermentation  for  the  wine  of  dramatic 
frenzy.  In  such  conditions  the  drama  becomes  a 
lost  art.  Who  shall  discover  the  way  to  the  Amer- 
ican mine  and  develop  its  riches  ?  Who  shall  find 
the  true  secret  of  conception  and  strike  the  key  of 
expression  ?  Who  shall  build -the  American  drama  ? 
A  few  words  about  the  moral  and  religious  oppo- 
sition to  the  drama,  which  now  and  then  breaks  out 
with  turbulence.  It  is  for  the  high  moralists,  the 
clergy  and  the  churches  to  consider  and  ponder  well 
how  they  can  be  of  the  most  benefit  to  man,  for 
whose  good  they  work.  Would  they  be  leaders  or 
drivers?  kind    counsellors    or    inexorable    judges? 


OCCASIONAL. 


277 


Men  are  led  better  than  they  are  driven  —  much 
better  —  and  they  take  more  kindly  to  sweet  coun- 
sel than  to  dogmatic  judgment.  They  must  have 
amusement  and  recreation  to  compensate  for  the 
grind  of  toil,  and  rebuild  exhausted  energy.  The 
need  is  imperious.  Where  are  they  to  get  this  life 
compensation  ?  The  stage  is  everywhere,  and  the 
drama  is  a  mighty  mother  with  arms  for  all.  She 
only  can  meet  the  universal  demand.  An  enlight- 
ened English  clergyman  has  nobly  said :  "  The 
stage  is  the  apotheosis  of  our  nature,  and  the  trans- 
figuration of  our  daily  life."  This  is  spoken  of  it  in 
its  purity,  and  in  view  of  its  grandest  purpose,  and 
it  is  true.  We  have  it.  Shall  we  make  the  best 
of  it  ?  An  institution  that  will  bear  this  encomium 
is  worthy  of  the  best  influence  and  best  work  of  the 
best  men.  It  has  stimulated  and  yielded,  and  it 
holds  in  its  everlasting  and  exclusive  possession  the 
richest  and  most  abundant  coinage  of  the  human 
brain.  Its  thought  is  woven  in  the  very  fabric  and 
organism  of  mind.  No  one  can  speak  a  cultivated 
tongue  without  quoting  its  master's  dramas.  Shall 
we  guard  the  dramatic  treasure  with  the  strongest 
fortress  of  our  civilization,  or  abandon  it  to  unbridled 
license  and  plunder?  Shall  we  cherish  and  cultivate 
it  as  a  garden  of  the  richest  flowers  and  fruits,  or 
permit  it  to  grow  up  with  rank  weeds  ?  For  it  can 
not  be  trodden  down  and  stamped  out  —  deep-rooted 
as  it  is  and  strong  in  luxurious  growth.  Then  it 
is  for  the  teachers  to  determine  whether  they  can 
better  exercise  their  high  office  and  perform  the 
greater   good   by  thundering   the  artillery  of  their 


2/8  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   MUSES. 

Opposition  against  the  drama's  temples,  or  by  recog- 
nizing and  encouraging  their  legitimate  uses,  and 
giving  their  influence  to  make  the  stage  most 
worthy  its  mission  of  ministering  to  man.  One 
thing  is  certain,  the  drama  began  with  man,  and  it 
is  going  to  see  him  through  to  the  end.  The  heart 
out,  life  is  done.     While  it  beats  — 

"Fame,  heaven  and  hell  are  its  exalted  theme, 
And  visions  such  as  Jove  himself  might  dream." 


EDUCATIONAL. 


NORMAL  SCHOOL  DEDICATION. 


ET  us  contemplate  the  magnitude  of  this  work 
1'''^  and  the  responsibilities  it  involves.  Let  us  en- 
deavor to  appreciate  its  full  meaning  and  pur- 
pose ;  let  us  invoke  to  our  aid  its  mighty  spirit 
now  hovering  over  us  with  brooding  wings  and 
gracing  our  assemblage  with  its  life-giying  presence. 
The  work  of  a  teacher  is  at  the  foundation  of  all 
the  professions,  and  in  the  highest  sphere  of  its  mis- 
sion the  profession  of  a  teacher  stands  at  the  head 
of  them  all.  It  is  the  first  in  order,  the  first  in 
importance,  and  the  grandest  in  its  ultimate  ex- 
pression. It  lays  the  base  and  crowns  the  column 
with  the  capital  in  all  the  orders  of  mental  architec- 
ture. To  use  another  figure,  it  is  the  true  husband- 
man of  culture.  It  prepares  the  soil,  sows  the  seed, 
gathers  the  harvest,  and  garners  the  golden  grain. 

We  have  formally  laid  the  corner-stone  of  an  edu- 
cational edifice,  and  the  edifice  itself  is  the  corner- 
stone of  a  vast  educational  system.  This  view,  and 
it  is  the  true  one,  a  hundredfold  magnifies  the  impor- 


280  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

tance  of  the  work  here  begun.  A  school  is  founded 
for  the  culture  and  training  of  teachers,  whose  high 
office  is  to  mould  the  characters  of  the  young  men 
and  young  women  of  the  State,  upon  whom  the 
State's  weighty  responsibilities  are  soon  to  fall. 

It  is  one  thing  to  know;  another  to  teach.  A 
scholar  may  be  graduated  by  any  of  the  celebrated 
chartered  and  endowed  institutions  of  learning  with 
the  highest  honors  and  yet  not  know  the  alphabet  of 
teaching.  Teaching  is  a  science  in  itself  and  is  so 
recognized  and  treated  by  our  public  school  system. 
Graduates  of  universities  generally  enter  what  are 
termed  the  "  learned  professions  **  or  drift  into  afflu- 
ence, ease  and  obscurity ;  but  comparatively  few  of 
them  ever  become  school  teachers. 

Whence,  then,  are  the  teachers  to  come  to  meet  the 
pressing  throngs  of  humanity  on  the  threshold  of 
active  life  ?  They  must  be  made.  Teaching  must 
be  taught.  The  province  of  a  normal  school  is  to 
teach  to  teach.  From  the  nature  of  its  work,  its 
course  and  method  must  be  peculiarly  its  own. 

High  schools,  seminaries  and  colleges  educate 
men  and  women  for  the  general  business  of  life. 
The  normal  school  qualifies  them  for  the  profession 
of  an  instructor.  It  is  the  indispensable  ground- 
work of  the  whole  superstructure  of  the  public  school 
system,  as  it  is  extending  itself  over  our  broad  land, 
and  is  of  the  first  necessity  to  its  efficacy  and  con- 
tinued prosperity. 

Great  genius  and  great  learning  are  cosmopolitan. 
Wherever  they  appear  they  are  the  common  prop- 
erty of  man ;    but  the  system  of  education  in  one 


EDUCATIONAL.  28 1 


country  is  not  entirely  adapted  to  the  needs  of  an- 
other. Neither  does  the  method  of  one  age  chime 
with  the  activity  of  another.  The  world  now  moves 
with  railroad  speed,  and  is  electrified  by  the  tele- 
graph. Stage  coaches  and  post-boys  have  passed 
away.  Education  must  still  lead,  not  follow  the  busy 
throngs  of  life. 

Every  people  must  discover  for  themselves  the 
most  congenial  means  for  their  development,  and 
those  who  find  the  natural  sphere  of  their  activity 
quickest  and  move  within  it  strongest  and  bravest, 
achieve  the  highest  stage  of  civilization. 

Civilization  works  by  laws  almost  as  immutable 
as  those  of  nature  herself.  The  desperadoes  and 
outcasts  of  society,  if  they  escape  its  vengeance, 
finally  throw  themselves  into  the  wilderness  and 
find  their  level  battling  with  wild  beasts  and 
savage  men.  This  warfare  results  in  a  benefi- 
cial mutual  extermination.  Then  the  frontiersman 
comes  with  his  wagon  and  his  axe,  and  his  plow, 
and  his  gun,  and  his  dog,  perhaps  his  wife,  and 
smooths  the  more  rugged  features  of  nature,  and 
dresses  her  in  her  work-day  clothes.  His  labor 
is  improved  by  little  communities  that  follow  in 
his  track.  They  become  fast  settlers,  and  culti- 
vate fruits  and  flowers  and  embellish  their  homes 
with  various  signs  and  hints  of  beauty.  Lastly 
comes  education,  and  builds  school-houses,  and 
founds  libraries,  and  finishes  the  work ;  thus  crown- 
ing with  mental  culture  the  labors  of  all  who 
have  been  before.  We  are  in  this  interesting  stage 
of  civilization,  and  are  now  engaged  not  in  crown- 


282  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

ing  the  king,  but  in  laying  the  foundation  of  an 
expanding  kingdom. 

Knowledge  is  essentially  aggressive.  It  is  always 
at  war  with  something  opposed  to  its  dissemination. 
It  fearlessly  attacks  error  and  pretension  wherever  it 
can  find  them.  It  does  not  wait  for  its  natural  ene- 
mies to  stumble  against  it ;  but  it  goes  forth  armed 
to  meet  or  chase  its  foes.  There  is  never  any  doubt 
which  will  finally  be  the  victor. 

In  many  countries  of  the  Old  World  education  has 
been  chiefly  directed  to  the  maintenance  and  expan- 
sion of  nationality,  the  development  of  war  power, 
and  the  aggrandizement  of  empire.  Its  principal 
stimulant,  and  at  the  same  time  its  worst  enemy,  was 
jealousy  of  neighbors.  It  was  thus  often  turned  into 
a  channel  in  which  the  obstructions  it  met  impeded 
the  solution  of  its  own  destiny.  But  it  never  ceased 
striving  for  the  cause  which  its  votaries  had  most  at 
heart,  and  it  never  failed  to  triumph. 

In  America  we  have  a  far  different  field  to  culti- 
vate, and  widely  divergent  objects  to  accomplish  by 
education.  We  have  to  construct  a  harmonious 
nationality  out  of  apparently  discordant  materials. 
We  have  all  the  territory  we  could  ask,  or  can  want : 
our  prime  object  should  be  to  settle  and  develop  it ; 
and  we  have  no  quarrelsome  neighbors  with  whom 
to  fight,  or  of  whom  to  be  jealous. 

Among  modern  nations  our  position  is  in  many 
respects  anomalous,  and  our  leading  activity  must 
spring  directly  from  our  instincts,  and  grow  out  of 
th-e  necessities  of  the  situation. 

Ariierica  is  the  lap  into  which  are  continually  pour- 


EDUCATIONAL.  283 


ing  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth,  both  in  products 
and  peoples.  Numerous  nationalities  which  for  ages 
have  cherished  little  animosities,  strong  antipathies, 
even  rank  hatred  against  each  other  at  home,  land 
on  our  shores  to  mingle  into  one,  and  that  one  a 
sovereign. 

It  is  the  province  of  our  system  of  education  to 
take  hold  of  these  heterogeneous  elements  and  in- 
herited antagonisms  and  mould  them  into  one  homo- 
geneous and  symmetrical  whole. 

The  education  of  America  has  still  to  contend 
against  its  foes,  not  with  the  sword,  but  under  its 
more  congenial  banner  of  peace,  and  with  the  sharper 
brand  of  reason.  It  has  to  fight  prejudice  —  that 
corroding  rust  which  eats  up  the  substance  of  the 
best  material  —  and  keep  the  machinery  of  society 
lubricated  and  bright.  It  has  to  make  bosom  friends 
of  natural  enemies  by  placing  them  side  by  side  on 
the  same  elevation  of  culture  and  economy,  stimu- 
lating their  aspirations  and  providing  a  common  work 
for  their  hands  and  brains  to  do. 

There  are  also  among  us  "native  and  to  the 
manner  born "  prejudices  against  foreign  immigra- 
tion. These  must  be  overcome  and  eradicated. 
Education  can  and  will  do  the  work,  and  no  means 
can  be  devised  which  promises  such  lasting  results  in 
this  direction  as  a  system  of  public  instruction  where 
the  young  of  all  nationalities  are  taught  and  trained 
together.  The  plastic  characters  of  children  become 
fitted  and  attached  to  each  other  by  a  community 
of  pursuits  in  the  school-room.  It  is  a  species  of 
Freemasonry  sacred  to  the  fairy-land  of  childhood  — 


284  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   MUSES. 

illumined  by  the  sunshine  of  innocence  and  joy, 
and  eloquent  with  the  merry  voice  of  laughter,  the 
memory  of  which  will  last  as  long  as  they  live. 

Last  of  all,  we  have  lingering  prejudices  to  fight 
at  home.  There  is  no  more  North  and  South. 
That  geographical  barrier  was  swept  away  in  blood. 
But  there  is,  in  the  sense  of  sectional  rivalry,  an 
East  and  a  West,  as  different  in  character  as  if  an 
ocean  rolled  between. 

However  much  we  may  laugh  at  or  denounce 
what  we  are  pleased  to  call  "Yankee  notions"  — 
and  we  of  the  West  generally  have  strong  feelings 
against  them  —  we  are  compelled  to  acknowledge 
the  broad  fact  that  New  England  has  educated  and 
is  still  educating  America. 

"Knowledge  is  power"  —  it  is  the  only  repubHcan 
aristocrat — it  is  an  imperial  autocrat  wherever  it 
has  its  seat,  and  it  sways  the  American  mind  from 
the  rock-built  throne  of  the  Pilgrims.  The  spirit 
of  the  Mayflower  yet  walks  the  waters,  and  is  around 
guiding  the  direction  of  almost  every  movement  on 
land.  Its  characteristic  instincts  were  sharpened 
by  persecution  and  penury,  and  the  corresponding 
intellect  was  whetted  by  necessity.  This  class  of 
mind  is  sure  to  cut  wherever  it  strikes,  and  it  strikes 
everywhere,  making  deep  incisions  for  its  intended 
cures. 

Let  us  forgive  its  foibles,  whatever  they  may  be. 
It  is  a  strong  character.  It  is  at  heart  a  good  spirit 
and  worthy  of  being  accHmated  to  the  West.  It 
will  lead  us  to  the  "  green  pastures  "  of  knowledge 
and  by  the  "still  waters"  of  wisdom  —  amid  such 


EDUCATIONAL.  285 


pastures  and  such  waters  as  can  be  found  nowhere 
else  in  the  world,  and  they  are  all  our  own. 

The  keen  edge  of  Eastern  culture  welded  to  the 
broad  growth  of  the  West  forms  a  wedge  which  will 
split  wide  open  the  toughest  problematical  knot 
under  the  sun. 

The  "  Yankees,"  as  they  are  proud  to  be  called, 
early  seized  upon  the  idea,  or  the  idea  seized  upon 
them,  that  education  was  the  corner-stone  of  a  great 
nation,  and  they  laid  it  —  the  principal  element  in 
the  development  of  a  country,  and  the  best  weapon 
for  its  defence  —  and  they  tried  it.  Having  resolved 
upon  the  means,  they  went  to  work  with  all  their 
might.  Their  method,  so  far  as  tested,  has  been 
proved  effective,  and  their  ability  to  pursue  it  is 
unquestioned.  We  are  simply  adapting  their  patent 
to  the  wants  of  the  West,  and  ought  to  give  them 
due  credit  for  the  invention. 

In  the  mode  of  applying  it  and  in  the  results  to 
be  attained  we  hope  in  time  to  be  able  to  give  les- 
sons to  our  New  England  schoolmasters. 

It  is  but  natural  that  a  little  ill-temper  should  be 
mingled  with  a  great  deal  of  reverence  for  the 
master  of  a  school,  if  he  be  a  good  one,  but  when 
the  scholars  turn  the  tables  —  multipHcation  tables  — 
as  we  expect  to  do  when  we  get  hold  of  the  balance 
of  power,  and  there  is  no  help  for  it,  our  severe  old 
Dominie  will  be  the  first  to  elevate  his  familiar 
spectacles  and  congratulate  us  on  our  astonishing 
progress,  and  the  wonderfully  beneficial  effects 
of  the  castigations  he  had  given  us  when  we  were 
boys. 


286  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   MUSES. 

Society  has  been  engaged  on  the  problems  of  pov- 
erty and  crime  in  all  time  past,  and  doubtless  will  be 
for  all  time  to  come.  Philanthropy  has  wrestled 
with  the  question  as  Jacob  wrestled  for  the  blessing. 
It  has  pointed  out  the  ladder  of  ascent,  the  principal 
rounds  of  which  are  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity.  But 
these  symbols  require  culture  to  understand;  the 
beginning  is  too  high  for  the  timid  feet  of  ignor- 
ance. 

Make  education  the  first  step  of  the  elevation,  that 
all  may  reach  a  material  footing,  and  hopeless  un- 
fortunates who  are  now  in  the  lowest  depths  of 
misery  and  degradation  will  be  abundantly  able  to 
rise  and  help  themselves.  This  would  be  especially 
the  case  in  our  own  country,  where  — 

'♦Thousands  of  hands  want  acres, 
And  thousands  of  acres  want  hands." 

This  age  has  seen  one  signally  distinguished  man 
of  great  wealth  who  understood  the  conditions  and 
needs  of  the  poor,  and  used  his  princely  means 
intelligently  for  their  benefit.  He  was  an  American 
by  birth,  by  education  the  product  of  the  common 
schools  of  New  England,  but  he  was  a  man  of  two 
hemispheres  and  a  benefactor  of  his  race.  In  Eng- 
land he  founded  hospitals  and  asylums ;  in  America 
he  lavished  his  wealth  for  the  cause  of  education. 
How  different  in  direction,  and  yet  how  like  in  pur- 
pose. The  end  was  reached  in  the  Old  World  by 
asylums;  in  the  New  World  by  schools.  What 
wealth  of  mournful  sympathy  there  is  in  the  former ; 
what  bloom  of  hope  in  the  latter. 


EDUCATIONAL.  28/ 


The  donor  thoroughly  understood  the  situation  on 
both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  by  his  royal  munifi- 
cence won  the  admiration  of  his  own  times  and  the 
gratitude  of  long  generations  to  come. 

In  every  school  book  in  the  land,  as  a  mark 
of  honor  for  the  unselfish  good  he  did,  should  be 
printed  —  George  Peabody,  the  grandest  million- 
naire  philanthropist  that  ever  lived. 

Educate  the  poor,  and  thus  remove  them  further 
from  the  temptations  of  crime.  Educate  the  poor, 
and  thus  place  in  their  hands  a  weapon  to  subdue 
the  besetting  sins  incident  to  their  condition,  and 
instil  into  their  hearts  the  hope  of  better  things. 
Educate  the  poor.  Elevate  their  ambition.  In- 
crease their  means.  Teach  them  to  enjoy  what 
they  get,  participate  in  the  enjoyment  of  their  next 
neighbors,  the  rich,  and  give  them  a  life  interest  in 
society  at  large.  Make  education  the  effective  foe 
of  poverty,  and  find  the  only  true  solution  of  this 
most  living  question  of  political  economy,  which 
has  so  long  puzzled  the  brains  of  mankind. 

Colleges  and  universities  and  the  various  private 
institutions  of  learning  can  not  do  it,  because  of  their 
intrinsic  exclusiveness  and  incapacity  to  extend  their 
fostering  wings  over  all.  They  are  powerless  to 
accomplish  this  object,  or  even  materially  to  ad- 
vance it,  being  a  part  of  an  entirely  different  design. 
What  then  ? 

A  system  of  universal  instruction  must  grapple 
with  it  —  a  system  comprehensive  enough  to  em- 
brace all  in  its  scope.  It  has  been  found,  we  trust 
and  believe,  in  the  pubHc  schools  of  America. 


288  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Popular  education,  through  the  magnetism  there 
is  in  the  term,  has  become  a  national  thought.  It 
was  the  necessary  outgrowth  of  other  free  institu- 
tions in  which  the  United  States  is  leading  the  van 
of  nations.  With  us  it  must  be  of  that  character 
best  adapted  to  promote  the  healthy  growth  and 
harmonious  development  of  the  country.  This  is 
the  first  great  work  it  has  to  do^  and  it  will  require 
a  union  of  all  our  forces,  and  the  exercise  of  all  our 
energies  to  do  it  well.  Our  legislators,  our  states- 
men, our  learned  men  must  be  actively  engaged  in 
the  cause,  as  these  prominent  classes  are  to-day,  and 
have  ever  been  in  some  of  the  old  European  coun- 
tries and  especially  in  England.  The  leading  minds 
of  Great  Britain  are  continually  busy  with  education 
and  reforms ;  and  to  a  high  state  of  culture,  which 
seems  to  be  hereditary  as  their  patents  as  gentlemen 
and  titles  as  lords  of  the  realm,  is  principally  due 
the  remarkable  fact  that  after  all  these  centuries 
of  luxury  and  refinement,  there  are  no  evidences 
of  decay  among  the  aristocracy  and  nobility  of  Eng- 
land. 

On  the  contrary,  every  age  extends  the  old,  vig- 
orous EngHsh  growth  of  cultured  manhood  and 
womanhood  by  bringing  the  lords  and  the  people 
nearer  and  nearer  together ;  and  even  royalty  is  now 
mingling  its  blood  in  the  subject's  veins. 

English  freedom  was  an  old  boast  which  became 
a  reality,  and,  as  time  passed,  rose  to  the  height  of 
grandeur.  It  was  the  legitimate  offspring  of  English 
education,  and  is  jealously  guarded  by  its  mighty 
mother,  who  transmitted  the  heritage  to  all  EngHsh- 


EDUCATIONAL.  289 


speaking  peoples.  She  perfected  monarchy  in  Great 
Britain,  and  she  founded  a  repubHc  in  America.  If 
our  good  mother  England  lost  a  continent  at  Bunker 
Hill  because  she  had  to  contend  with  a  new  element  of 
education  which  she  did  not  understand,  she  saved 
a  world  at  Waterloo  perhaps  through  the  lesson 
taught  her  by  her  loyal  yet  progressive  children. 

We  have  an  amazing  example  of  the  power  of 
education  in  the  late  terrible  clash  of  arms  between 
Germany  and  France. 

Germany  had  many  learned  men  and  learned  insti- 
tutions, and  was  at  the  same  time  an  essentially 
educated  people.  France  had  learned  men  and 
brilliant  institutions  as  well,  but  according  to  the 
standard  of  her  powerful  neighbor,  was  not  an  edu- 
cated nation. 

Germany  lived  in  the  present,  and  for  the  future, 
and  its  most  vital  thought  was  the  unity  of  the  Fa- 
therland. All  over  the  German  States  thought  con- 
verged in  the  grand  central  point  of  national  union. 

France  lived  in  the  past,  and  feasted  till  she  sick- 
ened on  her  old  glory.  The  education  of  the  masses 
was  neglected  and  inteUigence  became  contaminated 
with  superstition.  Whenever  they  attempted  a  move- 
ment out  of  their  worse  than  torpid  state  they  lacked 
the  inspiration  of  a  strong  popular  purpose,  and  a 
skeleton  hand  was  thrust  forth  out  of  the  dark  and 
dragged  them  back.  It  was  the  ghost  of  their  idol, 
the  great  emperor.  They  moved  many  times  for  a 
free  republic,  but  lacked  the  education  of  personal 
liberty,  and  the  republic  always  became  the  battle- 
ground for  the  empire. 


290  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  German  hosts  gathered  on  their  borders  like 
a  cloud  surcharged  with  lightning  of  their  wonderful 
vitality.  It  was  not  the  army  of  a  nation,  but  a 
whole  race  in  arms,  and  it  fell  upon  its  hereditary 
foe  with  an  iron  storm.  It  was  more.  It  was  an 
educated  engine  driving  remorselessly  through  a 
mass  of  national  and  ancestral  pride,  which  stood 
wrapped  in  dreams  of  the  past,  and  believed  itself  to 
be  invincible  and  immortal. 

On  drove  the  army  of  which  every  troop  thought 
like  a  savant,  and  every  battery  opened  its  argument 
like  a  university.  Pride,  however  strong,  was  no 
match  for  education  such  as  this.  Traditional 
prowess,  however  grand,  could  not  win  battles  against 
one  living,  all-pervading  thought,  which,  by  reason  of 
an  universal  belief  in  eternal  justice,  had  become  an 
accomplished  fact  before  one  blow  was  struck. 

In  such  a  contest  there  could  be  but  one  result, 
and  it  furnishes,  perhaps,  the  most  striking  illustra- 
tion in  the  unnumbered  pages  of  history  of  both  the 
moral  and  physical  power  of  popular  education. 

Schools  are  of  instantaneous  growth.  We  are  not 
required  to  wait  on  them  as  we  wait  for  a  young 
orchard  to  bear  fruit.  The  intermediate  stages  of 
development  were  passed  long  ago,  and  the  yield  is 
spontaneous  and  abundant. 

They  need  only  to  be  transplanted  from  one 
locality  to  another  —  from  the  nursery  to  the  field. 
They  thrive  as  well  in  the  desert  as  in  the  garden, 
and  may  attain  the  same  perfection  everywhere. 

As  regards  the  quality  of  education,  the  Old  World 
possesses  no  advantage  over  the  new,  nor  is  the  East 


EDUCATIONAL.  29 1 


of  our  own  country  superior  to  the  West,  for  the 
varieties  are  sure  to  reproduce  themselves.  The 
means,  alone,  must  be  provided  and  set  to  work,  and 
the  thing  is  done.  This  is  what  we  are  doing  in 
Warrensburg  to-day. 

The  operation  of  the  public  school  system  in  the 
city  of  St.  Louis  is  a  bright  example  of  the  wonder- 
ful success  in  brain  culture  that  can  be  reached  in  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  and  reflects  lasting  credit  upon 
those  who  have  had  its  management.  We  can  safely 
pride  ourselves  upon  the  best,  and  should  '*  give 
honor  to  whom  honor  is  due  "  for  this  especial  bless- 
ing which  we  enjoy. 

To  do  this  work  as  it  has  been  done  required  not 
only  brilliant  intellect  and  profound  knowledge  of 
all  the  branches  taught,  but  every-day  business 
capacity  and  organizing  ability  of  the  highest  order. 
The  best  evidence  of  the  varied  attainments  of  these 
masters  is  the  great  work  they  have  done. 

Their  highest  praise  is  the  gratitude  of  their  fellow- 
citizens,  and  the  personal  pride  with  which  each 
citizen  regards  the  incomparable  system  of  education 
by  them  created. 

This  retired  and  unselfish  labor,  for  the  most  part 
hidden  from  the  public  eye,  might  have  passed  with- 
out adequate  recognition  of  the  powers  brought  to 
it  had  it  not  been  for  our  enlightened  educational 
journals,  which  from  time  to  time  have  given  us 
gUmpses  of  the  forces  at  work,  and  the  philosophy  of 
their  action. 

The  American  people  are  in  a  moving  mood. 
Everything  is  moving  westward.     Even  the  East  is 


292  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

moving  out  West.  The  mind,  genius,  wealth  and 
power  of  this  great  nation  will  be  most  richly  devel- 
oped in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi;  Our  own 
proud  State  is  doing  her  part  in  the  general  move- 
ment, and  will  receive  her  full  share  of  the  glory. 
She  may  build  the  Athens  of  America  within  her 
borders. 

The  State  of  Missouri  is  now  the  most  important 
outpost  of  the  territory,  at  the  same  time  subjugated 
and  disenthralled  by  the  advancing  legions  of  the 
educated.  It  may  be  regarded  in  many  respects  as 
the  border-land  adjoining  the  enemy's  country. 

Education  is  another  "  voice  of  one  crying  in  the 
wilderness  "  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  greatest  con- 
federation of  peoples  that  the  world  ever  saw.  The 
voice  has  a  pleading  pathos  which  can  not  fail  of 
conversion,  and  that  lofty  tone,  springing  only  from 
the  consciousness  of  a  new  revelation  and  a  sublime 
mission. 

Our  noble  corps  of  teachers  are  gathered  like  sen- 
tinels on  the  heights  all  around,  and  much  depends 
upon  their  watchfulness  and  bravery.  On  their  ban- 
ners gleams  to  the  benighted  a  ''strange  device," 
which  is  at  once  their  watchword  and  the  herald  of 
victory.  Their  faces  are  turned  towards  the  setting 
sun,  but  they  shine  resplendent  with  the  beams  of 
the  morning,  at  whose  fountain  they  have  drunk 
inspiration,  and  are  now  proclaiming  the  glad  tidings 
of  moral  redemption  and  a  promised  land. 

One  word — gravitation — solved  the  problem  of 
the  universe.  One  word  —  education  —  is  solving 
the  problem  of  society  and  mankind. 


EDUCATIONAL.  293 


Men  may  tear  down  whatever  they  build  up 
except  education,  which  is  moulded  in  their  type  and 
stamped  in  their  very  souls.  It  alone,  of  all  human 
architecture,  is  indestructible,  imperishable,  and  solid 
as  the  foundations  of  the  world. 


NORMAL   SCHOOL  DEDICATION. 


II. 


iHE  awakened  genius  of  education  is  stretch- 
ing its  young  limbs,  and  the  warm  blood  is 
coursing  healthily  in  its  veins  and  arteries. 

^<^  It  is  building  magnificent  county  seats,  and 
apparently  means  to  establish  a  firm  footing  in  newly 
opened  territory  by  paving  every  school  district  in 
our  State  with  corner-stones. 

These  ceremonies  and  this  public  demonstration 
signify  that  the  people  who  inaugurated  them  are  in 
solemn  earnest.  You  thus  proclaim  to  the  whole 
world  that  your  hearts  and  souls  are  alive  to  the  im- 
portance of  the  movement,  and  you  thus  pledge  your 
lives,  fortunes  and  sacred  honor  to  the  consummation 
of  your  aspirations,  and  the  realization  of  your 
hopes.  Having  taken  this  step  you  can  not  retreat. 
Pride  comes  in  to  guard  the  work  already  done,  and 
your  native  enterprise  will  urge  you  to  the  execution 
of  the  design. 

The  corner-stone  has  been  tested  by  the  proper 
implements  of  the  builders'  craft  and  pronounced 
well  formed,  true  and  trusty,  and  correctly  laid.  It 
is  capable  of  sustaining  the  superstructure.  Apply 
the  lesson.  You  have  begun  right.  Your  work  is 
true — your    material  is    solid,   your    foundation  is 


EDUCATIONAL.  295 


strong,  and  assures  you  that  you  may  go  on  laying 
stone  upon  stone,  until  the  building  is  finished  and 
stands  in  your  midst  an  enduring  monument  of  your 
skill. 

It  is  not  a  monument  to  commemorate  the  dead, 
but  to  perpetuate  the  wisdom  and  foresight  of  the 
living.  It  is  to  live  among  you  and  grow  with  you, 
the  hope  of  maturity  and  the  safeguard  of  the  young. 
To  future  generations  it  will  record  a  great  act  of 
justice,  and  conscientious  performance  of  duty  of  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy- 
one. 

The  corner-stone  has  been  consecrated  with  the 
corn  of  nourishment,  the  wine  of  refreshment,  and 
the  oil  of  joy,  —  emblematical  of  health,  peace  and 
prosperity.     Let  us  draw  the  lesson. 

The  universal  brotherhood  which  we  represent  in- 
culcates harmony  among  the  whole  people  in  the 
prosecution  of  such  an  undertaking  as  this.  It  insists 
that  we  must  work  as  an  unit,  and  strive  as  one  man 
to  insure  complete  success ;  that,  however  we  may 
differ  in  creeds  and  opinions  in  other  affairs  of  life, 
we  must  lay  all  personal  preferences  and  prejudices 
inimical  to  this  purpose  upon  a  common  altar  dedi- 
cated to  universal  education. 

Then  the  edifi.ce  will  grow,  stone  upon  stone,  har- 
moniously to  its  summit,  in  an  atmosphere  of  peace, 
radiant  with  the  glow  of  health,  and  resounding  with 
the  rejoicings  of  prosperity.  Every  stone  will  be 
consecrated  to  human  progress  by  the  corn  of 
nourishment,  the  wine  of  refreshment,  and  the  oil  of 

joy- 


296         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

The  squared  stone  of  the  corner  represents  the 
great  thought  which  underHes  the  act;  the  living 
thought  from  which  the  movement  springs  ;  the  har- 
monious thought  which  must  permeate  and  direct  all 
its  counsels.  It  is  symbolical  of  a  perfect  character 
developed  by  culture.  It  comprehends  the  grand 
result  of  all  our  educational  work,  and  is  also  typical 
of  the  completed  structure. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  finished  building. 

What  does  it  teach  ?  What  blessings  does  it 
promise  ?  Contrast  it  with  the  old  frame  school- 
house  which  squats  away  down  in  the  vista  of  our 
memory.  It  is  another  pile  of  evidence  that  the  peo- 
ple, having  taken  hold  of  their  own  affairs,  are  capa- 
ble of  managing  the  trust.  Having  wrested  from  old 
feudal  systems  freedom  of  person,  they  are  rapidly 
becoming  freeholders  in  mind,  and  think  and  act  for 
themselves.  Mental  and  moral  servitude  is  by  far 
the  worst  species  of  slavery.  These  shackles  have 
fallen,  and  the  whole  people  are  marching  with  deep 
ranks  and  a  broad  front,  up  to  their  higheir  intellec- 
tual destiny.  A  detachment  of  them  has  halted  here 
to-day,  halted  only,  not  stopped.  They  are  celebrat- 
ing a  peaceful  victory,  and  will  soon  go  marching  on 
to  heights  of  still  more  exalted  being,  that  shine  upon 
their  longing  vision  from  afar. 

The  professions,  which  of  old,  were  clothed  with 
terror,  and  delivered  their  oracles  from  behind  a 
dark,  impenetrable  curtain  to  the  people  cowering  in 
a  dimly  lighted  chamber,  have  yielded  to  the  clamors 
of  the  audience  for  more  light.  The  veil  was  torn 
away.     Much  intellectual  humbug  has  been  exposed. 


EDUCATIONAL.  29/ 


Periwig  doctors,  armed  with  audacity  and  voiced  with 
thunder,  have  vanished. 

"The  altars  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal." 

The  old  solemnities  that  presided  by  overawing,  and 
tyrannized  in  darkness,  are  gone  forever,  and  their 
places  shall  know  them  no  more.  The  people  have 
rushed  like  a  swelling  sea  into  these  mysterious 
sanctuaries,  and  taken  possession  of  their  ancient  in- 
heritance and  their  rights.  The  professions,  divested 
of  their  superstitious  auxiliaries,  mingle  with  the 
masses,  of  which  they  form  a  respectable  and  now 
honorable  part,  and  in  their  exercise  mutual  confi- 
dence and  reciprocal  love  have  taken  the  place  of 
irrational  awe  and  secret  hate. 

The  audience  halls^  are  lighted  and  aifed  —  your 
Normal  School  is  one  of  them.  Behold  it  and  re- 
joice, ye  emancipated  people.  The  old  dark  school- 
house  is  gone.  The  old  school-master,  sore  afflicted 
with  his  rheumatic  mentality,  could  not  endure  the 
pouring-in  streams  of  light  and  air,  and  the  cheery 
voice  of  freedom.  He,  too,  is  gone;  gone  with  his 
instruments  of  torture ; 

"  Gone  glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things  that  were." 

A  new  era  reigns  in  the  realms  of  mind.  Its  morn- 
ing light  has  aroused  the  people  to  put  forth  their 
strength.  Their  watchword  is  "  Popular  Education," 
and  we  are  now,  as  it  were,  surrounding  the  corner- 
stone of  a  new  temple  of  the  sun,  celebrating  the 
dawn  of  a  brighter  day  with  thankfulness,  gratulation 
and  joy. 


298  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

There  is  no  necessity  of  poverty  in  this  beautiful 
land.  Education  is  a  richer  patrimony  than  gold. 
The  voice  of  culture  is  becoming  more  powerful  than 
the  jingle  of  the  "  almighty  dollar."  A  man  may  be 
compelled  to  labor,  but  if  he  have  mental  culture  he 
can  not  be  poor  — 

"  He,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  Time." 

Let  US  hope  —  those  who  can  not  hope  may  still 
dream  —  that  we  are  driving  into  an  age  of  the  world 
when  poverty  will  be  impossible,  and  squalid  sloth 
unknown ;  when  honest  labor  will  be  the  only  type 
of  nobility  ;  when  all  will  be  rich  in  that  which  alone 
can  make  wealth  of  value,  and  all  workers  with  the 
hands ;  when  education  will  be  universal,  and  men 
and  women  rated  according  to  the  use  they  make  of 
it,  and  the  amount  of  good  they  do.  Such  would 
be  a  truly  golden  age,  without  the  servile  drudgery 
of  gold. 

And  now  let  us  take  a  cursory  view  of  the  field  as 
it  is  spread  before  us,  and  note  the  prospect.  A 
good,  solid  education  seems  to  be  the  spirit  of  the 
time.  All  may  participate  in  its  benefits  and  bless- 
ings until  the  old  class  distinctions  and  barriers  of 
life  exist  no  more  to  traverse  and  scar  the  body  poli- 
tic with  harsh  dividing  lines.  The  laborer,  the  me- 
chanic, the  farmer,  the  merchant  and  the  professional 
man  spring  from  the  same  level  and  receive  their 
early  training  in  the  same  schools.  So  far,  society  is 
equalized.  This  mingling  of  youth  is  the  basis  of  a 
better  life-long  understanding.  They  know  each 
other  simply  as  they  are,  and  no  one  knows  what 


EDUCATIONAL.  299 


business  or  profession  his  fellow  is  destined  to  adopt. 
Ambition  and  mental  proclivities  determine  their 
calHng  and  mould  their  future  lives.  School  educa- 
tion is  but  the  key  of  knowledge  to  unlock  the  mys- 
teries of  the  unknown.  Having  it,  every  man  must 
use  it  for  himself;  otherwise  it  rusts  and  becomes 
worthless  in  his  hands. 

It  is  a  fact  of  which  there  are  innumerable  living 
examples,  that  a  boy  who  gets  an  education  in  our 
common  schools,  having  ambition  and  fair  natural 
ability,  can  be  anything  he  will.  His  course  is  free, 
and  every  avenue  to  distinction  and  honor  opens  to 
his  magic  key.  If  he  rise  above  his  fellows  he  has 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  condition  and  needs  of 
those  below  him,  and  his  experience  has  infinitely 
increased  his  power  for  good.  He  may  be  a  great 
educator,  or  a  legislator,  or  a  governor,  without  the 
crutch  of  money  to  lean  upon,  or  any  of  the  so-called 
"  learned  professions  "  to  help  him  along.  What 
does  he  want  with  their  one-sidedness  when  his  edu- 
cation has  been  experimental,  and  in  some  sort  uni- 
versal ?  He  is  far  better  without  one  single  profession 
to  guide  the  destinies  of  men  of  all  conditions  and 
professions. 

Relics  of  the  old  masquerade  of  the  professions  still 
linger,  even  under  our  republican  system  of  society. 
The  gown  and  wig,  and  pomposity  have  been  dis- 
carded, but  the  tradition  remains ;  and  the  idea  that 
the  professions  alone  are  fitted  to  manage  public  af- 
fairs, and  give  tone  to  public  life,  shows  much  vitality. 
Its  tendency  is  to  concentrate  the  ruling  power  in 
the  hands  of  a  particular  class,  instead  of  representing 


300         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

in  its  administration  the  interests  of  all.  This,  the 
policy  of  our  public  school  system  will  in  time  correct, 
its  very  life  and  spirit  being  opposed  to  all  forms  of 
aristocracy,  which  assumes  exclusive  prerogatives 
and  the  sole  right  to  rule. 

Men  have  striven  life-long  for  wealth,  and  ended 
their  days  in  the  alms-houses ;  for  power,  and  became 
prisoners  and  slaves.  But  never  yet  has  an  earnest 
effort  to  become  educated  failed  to  bring  its  sub- 
stantial results  and  its  crown  of  honor.  In  the 
bright  lexicon  of  **  Young  America,"  resolved  to 
educate  himself,  there  is  truly  no  such  word  as  fail. 
Let  no  youth  of  our  country  sit  down  and  grieve  be- 
cause his  opportunities  h^ve  not  afforded  him  a 
special  education,  when  he  has  had  the  advantage  of 
our  glorious  system  of  public  schools  to  make  him- 
self a  man. 

Now  a  word  for  the  little  people,  many  of  whom 
are  here  to-day,  who  would  rather  run  wild  in  the 
woods  and  fields  and  study  nature,  than  learn  their 
lessons  in  books.  If  the  books  can  not  be  taken  to 
the  fields,  the  spirit  of  the  fields  can  be  brought  to 
the  books. 

We  sometimes  hear  of  dull  children  who  never 
learned  anything  at  school,  and  finally  left  those  in- 
stitutions with  the  diploma  of  a  dunce.  Some  of 
these  academic  dunces  have  developed  into  the 
brightest  intellects  that  ever  illumed  the  world. 
The  contrast  between  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  such  lives  may  well  create  suspicion  that 
the  teachers  and  not  the  children  were  dull. 
These    old    masters    of    letters     apparently    knew 


EDUCATIONAL.  3OI 


everything  but  what  was  nearest  —  human  nature  — 
which  was  to  them  a  sealed  book.  They  never 
thought  of  opening  the  little  volumes  before  them, 
and  reading  and  sympathizing  with  what  was  there. 
They  looked  upon  the  child-brain  all  alike  —  as  a 
sheet  of  white  paper,  upon  which  they  commenced 
scribbling  unintelligible  words  without  reference  to 
what  was  already  written,  never  to  be  blotted  out. 
The  very  natural  result  was  nonsense^  and  the  child, 
not  knowing  how  it  came,  gave  up  the  puzzle  in 
despair,  and.  was  content  to  be  called  a  fool. 

Poor  little  victim  of  unmerited  disgrace  !  who  could 
have  taught  the  teacher  the  very  beginning  and  end 
of  all  knowledge  in  its  prattling  way,  if  the  pompous 
man  had  but  listened  to  nature's  voice,  prophetic  in 
the  child!  There  is  nothing  so  brim  full  of  pa- 
thos as  the  pleading  of  such  tongues  in  ears  that 
can  not,  or  will  not,  hear  them ;  or  the  dumb,  yet 
eloquent  appealing  of  such  hearts  to  hearts  that  can 
not  understand. 

The  art  of  teaching  promulgated  by  our  Normal 
Schools  is  happily  founded  in  human  nature,  and, 
therefore,  it  seizes  at  once  upon  the  character 'of  the 
child,  moves  in  sympathy  with  it,  stimulates  interest 
opens  the  book  of  knowledge  like  a  wonderful  story, 
and  gives  to  the  dry  tomes  of  science  the  freshness, 
and  flavor  of  the  loved  Arabian  tales. 

How  many  years  of  dullness  and  disgrace  are  thus 
saved,  to  be  added  to  the  lustrous  years  thereafter, 
that  contribute  to  the  store  of  the  world's  treasures, 
with  which  it  forever  enriches  its  future. 

Our    public    schools   are   the   great   arsenals   of 


302  THE   MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

progress.  All  the  forces  of  civilization  meet  in  the 
school-room  among  the  teachers  and  boys  and  girls, 
and  quietly  organize  for  their  successive  campaigns. 
They  go  forth  with  shields  more  radiant  than  Achilles' 
armor,  and  lives  more  invulnerable  than  Achilles* 
self,  to  disperse  the  mob  of  error,  and  take  the 
embattled  citadels  of  abuse  by  storm. 

Learning  is  no  old  philosopher's  dream,  but  it  is 
the  waking  reality  of  millions  who  are  struggling 
out  of  the  shadows  of  ignorance  and  poverty  into 
the  sunlight  of  knowledge  and  comfort.  It  is  not 
the  light  only,  it  is  the  eye,  and  it  shapes  the  object. 
It  is  the  strong  arm  that  wields  the  weapon,  and  it 
is  the  bright  blade  that  flashes  and  cleaves.  It  is 
the  muscle  and  the  intellect;  instinct  and  reason; 
body  and  soul. 

Knowledge  is  not  the  solitary  diamond  of  great 
price  which  sparkles  and  burns  on  the  breast  of  some 
magnate  of  the  land  ;  it  is  a  whole  diadem  of  jewels, 
within  the  reach  of  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  to 
grace  the  brow  of  every  one  who  puts  forth  a  hand 
to  grasp  the  prize.  It  reverses  the  natural  laws 
which  govern  other  precious  things.  The  more 
there  is  of  it  the  more  valuable  does  it  become,  and 
the  more  one  gives  away  the  more  one  has.  We 
have  struck  a  new  vein  of  it  here  —  an  exhaustless 
mine  of  that  shining  ore  which  contributes  more 
than  any  other  influence  to  happiness,  prosperity, 
worldly  wealth  and  power.  Let  it  be  worked  until 
every  hand  holds  a  sceptre  and  every  head  wears  a 
crown. 


SKETCHES  FROM   LIFE, 


UKEL-ZAM, 


LEGEND  OF  THE  VEILED  PROPHET. 


^wOR  several  years  the  annual  carnivals  of  the 
Veiled  Prophets  have  been  occasions  of  wide 
and  wondering  interest  in  that  marvellous 
ocean-bounded  country  whose  central  great 
city  is  San  Lotos.  The  American  nation  that  pre- 
sides over  the  development  and  directs  the  destinies 
of  the  country  is  yet  young  in  years,  and  the  first  sur- 
prise was  that  so  old  a  personage  as  a  prophet  should 
take  such  an  exceptional  interest  in  so  young  a  peo- 
ple. Again,  the  origin  of  the  Veiled  Prophet,  his 
character,  ancestry  and  object  in  visiting  San  Lotos 
at  a  stated  season  every  year  were  wrapped  in  the 
deepest  mystery,  which  heretofore  no  pertinacious 
curiosity  has  been  able  to  solve.  The  Prophet  makes 
his  timely  announcements,  comes  with  his  legions  in 
royal  splendor,  from  no  one  knows  whence,  has  a 
dazzling  night  of  it,  turning  darkness  into  day  in  his 
train,  vanishes   before  the  morning's  dawn,  no  one 


304  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

knows  whither,  and  leaves  the  people  in  a  glamour  of 
amazement. 

So  far  as  is  known  the  Veiled  Prophet  does  not 
use  the  electric  telegraph,  the  magnetic  telephone, 
the  people's  postal  service  or  any  of  the  ocean  tran- 
sits or  lines  of  railway  to  communicate  his  designs 
or  transport  his  regal  pomp.  All  of  his  communica- 
tions are  "strictly  confidential,"  and  all  his  move- 
ments are  mysteries.     So  the  wonder  grows. 

But  the  time  came  for  the  solution  of  the  Veiled 
Prophet  mystery  and  here  it  is  :  — 

One  night  —  the  excitement  of  a  solitary  watcher 
prevented  his  noting;  of  the  hour — a  single  gallop- 
ing horse  was  heard  crossing  a  great  bridge  which 
spans  the  Mississippi,  with  such  speed  that  the  toll- 
takers  shouted  in  vain.  On  the  back  of  the  horse 
was  a  horseman  whose  head  seemed  to  be  en- 
veloped in  a  mosquito  bar.  It  was  a  veil  —  no 
doubt  about  that.  Over  the  bridge,  the  horseman 
slackened  his  speed,  and  after  a  tortuous  winding  of 
several  squares  dismounted  at  a  pile  of  millstones 
left  out  of  doors  because  they  were  supposed  to  be 
too  heavy  to  be  carried  off  by  night  prowlers.  The 
horseman,  unaware  of  being  *'  shadowed,"  took  from 
his  left  inside  vest  pocket  a  numerously  sealed  pack- 
age, which  shone  in  the  twinkling  starlight,  and 
quickly  dropped  it  in  the  opening  of  the  upper  mill- 
stone. At  that  supreme  moment  the  wary  watcher 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  thus  accosted 
him : 

**  Sir,  I'm  night  watchman  here,  and  shall  have  to 
take  you  in,  for  trying  to  steal  a  millstone." 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  305 

He  replied : 

*'  You  don't  say  so.  Here's  a  nickel  to  let  me  go, 
and  keep  mum." 

The  shining  solicitor  was  refused,  and  the  horse- 
man mused  a  bit.  At  length  he  said  :  "  It's  all 
up;  we're  cornered,  the  secret's  out.  Can 'you  see 
through  a  millstone  ?  " 

"Yes;  if  there's  a  hole  in  it." 

"  Correct !  That's  the  point,  and  don't  you  forget 
it.     I'll  tell  you  all,  if  you'll  let  me  slip." 

"All  what?'* 

"All  about  the  marvels  of  the  Veiled  Prophets." 

"All  right ;  now  we  are  coming  to  the  point." 

The  horseman  continued  :  "  Fact  is,  the  business 
I'm  on  has  been  held  a  mystery  long  enough,  espe- 
cially as  its  object  and  outcome  are  public.  There 
is  no  reason  for  further  concealment,  and  I'll  tell  you 
who  I  am  and  all  I  know.  Listen !  I  am  an  emis- 
sary of  the  Veiled  Prophet  —  Ukel-Zam- — who  has 
made  several  visits  to  your  city,  incognito,  and  is  now 
on  his  way  here  to  conduct  another  and  still  greater 
festival  in  October.  The  opening  in  this  millstone, 
which  you  are  able  to  see  through,  is  the  Veiled 
Prophet's  post-office,  into  which  I  have  just  dropped 
a  letter  of  instructions  to  the  *  Solid  Citizen '  and 
chief  of  the  mystic  order  here,  and  I  must  ask  you 
to  respect  the  secrecy  and  sacredness  of  that  pack- 
age, sealed  with  twelve  seals  —  a  seal  for  every  month 
in  the  year,  and  a  golden  seal  for  October.  That 
letter  must  be  opened  at  break  of  day  by  the  proper 
hands." 

"All  right  again,  amiable  horseman ;  go  on." 


306         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

And  leaning  on  that  pile  of  millstones  holding 
the  bridle  reins  of  his  steed  in  his  hand  under 
the  calm  autumnal  starlight,  the  veil  still  hiding 
his  face,  the  emissary  from  the  Orient,  related 
the  following  history  of  Ukel-Zam,  until  now 
known  only  as  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  the  Him- 
alayas. The  Wandering  Jew  has  long  been  ex- 
ploded as  a  myth  of  the  Dark  Ages,  but  Ukel- 
Zam  is  an  earthly  reality,  that  lives  on  forever. 
In  the  early  times  of  man,  before  the  dawn  of 
written  history,  his  fame  as  a  world-builder  be- 
came so  great  that  he  was  deified,  and  mixed  up 
with  mythology  after  the  manner  of  the  primitive 
peoples.  Patterns  of  men  became  objects  of  wor- 
ship in  after  times,  and  thus  the  gods  were  dis- 
tributed to  preside  over  the  various  arts  and  sciences 
and  human  pursuits  as  they  developed  into  activity 
and  solidity. 

Zeus,  better  known  in  these  days  as  Jupiter,  the 
father  of  them  all,  was  very  liberal  in  the  distribu- 
tion of  his  secondary  deities,  but,  like  common 
mortals,  he  forgot  some  things  that  needed  looking 
after.  Among  these  lapses  of  memory  or  ignorance 
of  the  situation,  he  neglected  to  provide  for  the  me- 
chanic arts,  upon  which  agriculture  and  the  real  life 
of  the  world  so  much  depend.  He  was  rather  partial 
to  women,  and  produced  nine  daughters  to  order, 
collectively  called  the  Muses.  To  History  he  gave 
Clio ;  to  Lyric  Poetry,  Euterpe ;  to  Comedy,  Thalia ; 
to  Tragedy,  Melpomene  ;  to  Dance,  Terpsichore ;  to 
the  Ode  and  Love  Song,  Erato;  to  the  Hymnal, 
Polymnia ;  to  Astronomy,  Urania ;  and  to  Epic  Po- 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  3O7 

etry  and  Music,  Calliope ;  but  for  the  mechanic  arts 
he  provided  no  patron  deity. 

He  had  Juno  for  Company,  Venus  for  Ornament, 
Pallas  for  Perfection,  Mercury  for  Speed,  Mars  for 
War,  and  Vulcan  to  do  dirty  work  at  the  forge  for 
human  destruction,  but  no  one  to  beat  swords  into 
plowshares.  Some  of  the  lesser  gods  were  much 
offended  because  of  Mars.  He  was  never  an  Olym- 
pian favorite,  and  many  thought,  as  a  god  had  been 
detailed  to  destroy  mankind,  that  there  ought  to  be 
a  foil  provided  for  man's  sustenance  and  protec- 
tion —  a  god  of  peace  as  well  as  a  god  of  war. 

It  was  a  sly  conspiracy,  but  it  came  to  pass  that 
Vulcan,  the  brawny  blacksmith,  and  Venus,  the 
blonde  beauty  of  Olympus,  contrived  to  have  a 
surreptitious  son,  and  they  called  his  name  Me- 
kanus,  and  reared  him  secretly  in  the  practice  of  the 
useful  arts.  But  his  great  works  finally  betrayed 
him  to  be  of  the  royal  Jovan  family,  and  as  Zeus 
could  not  brook  grandchildren  or  third  cousins  near 
the  throne,  Mekanus  was  banished,  by  Jupiter !  and 
driven  out  of  Olympus,  by  Jove !  Vulcan  was 
chained  to  his  own  forge  forever,  and  Venus  con- 
tinued to  be  tolerated  among  the  Immortals  on 
account  of  her  beauty,  but  her  reputation  has  never 
been  rightly  cleared  up. 

Ostracised,  expatriated,  banished,  Mekanus  went 
into  a  strange  land  and  among  a  strange  people 
who  were  not  ready  for  his  enlightenment,  but  he 
gathered  unto  himself  a  few  trusty  disciples,  took 
the  veil  for  greater  security  from  pursuit  and  med- 
dling interference,  changed  his  name  to  Ukel-Zam 


308         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

(solid  citizen)  to  conceal  his  origin  and  identity,  and 
in  conformity  to  the  language  of  the  people  among 
whom  he  had  cast  his  future  lot;  and  the  master 
and  followers  betook  themselves  for  a  safe  refuge 
and  seclusion  into  the  lofty  fastnesses  of  the  Hima- 
laya Mountains  in  Thibet.  All  this  happened  before 
the  dawn  of  that  history  which  has  lighted  the  world 
along  for  some  thousands  of  years. 

And  now  comes  a  slight  contradiction  of  the  old 
legends,  and  even  history  itself,  but  before  pointing 
out  the  discrepancy  let  us  consider  well  the  Hima- 
laya meaning  in  Sanscrit,  "the  abode  of  snow." 
Forty-five  of  the  peaks  exceed  23,000  feet  each  in 
height.  The  Crown  Peak,  and  the  highest  point 
known  on  the  globe  —  Mount  Everest  —  towers  29,- 
002  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Now  it  is 
recorded  that  the  deluge,  known  as  "Noah's  Flood,'* 
submerged  the  whole  earth,  the  teachers  and  com- 
mentators say  five  miles  deep,  covering  all  the 
known  mountain  tops.  No  one  has  ever  claimed 
the  depth  of  the  deluge  as  over  five  miles,  or  26,- 
400  feet  all  around,  while  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Himalaya  is  2,602  feet  over  five  miles.  Here  is 
solid  ground  for  the  belief  that  a  point  of  land  still 
remained  high  and  dry  above  the  flood,  upon  which 
living  beings  might  have  weathered  the  storm. 
Somebody,  therefore,  could  have  tided  the  deluge 
over  besides  Noah  and  his  family,  by  whom  the 
earth  was  to  be  repeopled. 

The  legend  of  the  Ukel-Zam,  the  Veiled  Prophet, 
comes  to  the  aid  of  geography  and  supports  this 
theory,  which  is  further  reinforced  by  two  curious 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  3O9 

linguistic  facts  on  the  Continent  of  Europe — the 
Hungarian  and  the  Basque  languages.  Neither  the 
Hungarian  nor  the  Basque  bear  any  resemblance  or 
relationship  whatever  to  the  Semitic,  Hamitic,  Ja- 
phetic, or  to  any  of  the  family  of  Aryan  tongues. 
It  has  long  been  a  mystery  and  a  puzzle  to  philolo- 
gists where  they  came  from  and  how  they  got  into 
Europe.  The  legend  of  the  Veiled  Prophet  offers 
the  only  rational  solution  of  this  difficult  problem. 

Ukel-Zam  and  his  followers  were  in  the  Himalaya 
Mountains  when  the  flood  came,  and  were  driven  by 
the  rising  waters  up  the  peak  of  Mount  Everest. 

The  inference  is  clear :  They  kept  out  of  the 
thick  of  the  wet,  and  when  the  waters  subsided  they 
came  down  again  and  took  a  hand  at  replenishing 
and  repeopling  the  earth. 

Before  the  historic  migrations  of  nations  began, 
still  holding  their  fort  and  the  base  line  of  the  Him- 
alayas, they  pushed  into  Europe,  driving  the  abor- 
igines before  them  to  the  Pyrenees,  where  they 
lodged,  and  saved  their  original  tongue,  which  is 
called  Basque,  while  the  Himalayan  invaders  founded 
a  colony  and  planted  their  own  language  in  Hun- 
gary. The  Aryan  peoples  in  after  ages  surrounded 
them,  and  then  both  the  Hungarians  and  the  Basques 
became  the  puzzling  problems  of  the  learned  world, 
and  this  exposition  of  the  Veiled  Prophet  mystery 
may  prove  the  long-lost,  now-found  key  to  the  Hun- 
garian-Basque philological  situation. 

Ukel-Zam  and  his  followers  had  their  choice  of 
the  forty-five  eternally  snow-capped  peaks  of  the 
Himalayas,  and  were  forced   by  the  circumstances 


310  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

of  a  very  rainy  season  to  choose  the  highest.  The 
leader  founded  the  order  of  the  "  Veiled  Prophets," 
and  his  banished  seclusion  and  the  guard  of  the 
veil  suggested  the  veiling  ceremony  of  the  initia- 
tion. All  the  band  were  veiled  in  token  of  the 
hidden  forces  of  nature  constantly  at  work  for  the 
world's  best  development,  and  all  within  the  power 
of  man  to  hitch  to  the  car  of  progress.  Ukel-Zam 
was  proclaimed  the  prophet  of  progress,  and  crowned 
as  the  divinity  who  presides  over  the  mechanic  arts. 

The  Prophets  discovered  in  Mount  Everest  an 
immense  natural  system  of  caves  and  rock-built 
passages  linking  them  all  together.  The  entrance  to 
the  caverned  halls  is  near  the  shore  of  a  lake  which 
kisses  the  sky  six  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty 
feet  above  the  sea. 

In  this  valley  in  the  heart  of  the  Himalayas  all 
the  seasons  of  the  revolving  years  are  continually 
present — spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter,  reigning 
at  different  heights  on  the  hills  and  mountain  sides 
at  the  same  time,  all  the  year  round. 

The  region  abounds  in  the  precious  metals  and  the 
purest  crystals  of  all  kinds  and  colors.  The  Prophets 
found  the  caves  illuminated  with  them,  and  the 
largest  cavern  they  soon  transformed  into  a  great 
castle  hall  of  wondrous  brilliancy  by  seizing  upon 
the  natural  formations  and  moulding  them  into 
myriads  of  graceful  art  forms. 

The  skins  of  tigers  and  leopards  and  other  wild 
animals  of  the  mountains  furnish  the  carpets  and 
couches  for  the  castle  and  chambers,  making  the 
mansion   of  the   Prophets   luxurious  and  richer  in 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  3II 

furnishment  than  the  palaces  of  the  Oriental  kings. 
Adjoining  this  are  many  other  apartments  of  utility 
and  great  work,  shops  full  of  all  sorts  of  machinery 
and  every  known  kind  of  mechanism,  set  and  kept  in 
motion  by  a  subterranean  stream  and  waterfall  from 
the  continually  falling  and  melting  snows  of  the 
upper  mountain  region,  which  after  spinning  the 
great  power-wheel,  dashes  out  into  the  lake. 

The  workshops  and  machinery-rooms  of  the  Veiled 
Prophets  are  museums  of  all  the  industrial  arts, 
and  thus  the  world  moves  and  grows  in  the 
mountain's  womb  and  brings  forth  a  new  birth  every 
day,  and  this  development  of  the  useful  and  beauti- 
ful has  been  in  progress  unnumbered  ages. 

The  crystal  water  which  distills  from  the  snow  on 
the  summit  of  Mount  Everest,  and  flows  into  a  great 
golden  basin,  gemmed  with  diamonds  around  the 
brim,  in  the  prophet's  palace,  is  the  true  and  only 
elixir  of  life,  and  the  proof  of  it  is  the  perpetual 
existence  of  those  who  drink  it.  The  Veiled  Prophet 
has  possession  of  the  "  philosopher's  stone,"  and  the 
secret  of  the  transmutation  of  metals,  for  which  the 
alchemists  have  sought  so  long  in  vain.  Therefore 
the  mystic  pass-word  of  the  prophets  is  Eureka  ! 

As  might  be  supposed,  the  Veiled  Prophets  could 
not  have  dwelt  in  the  Himalayas  so  long  entirely 
unknown  to  the  surrounding  people.  Upon  this 
point  encyclopaedical  authority  tells  us  that  the 
ancient  Hindus  invested  Mount  Everest  with  the 
most  mysterious  properties  and  attributes,  and  con- 
nected it  with  the  history  of  some  of  their  own 
deities.     It  was  supposed  to  be  the  abode  of  Siva, 


312  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE   MUSES. 

the  patron  of  penitent  prilgrims  who  repair  to  its 
summit  to  win  the  favors  of  the  indwelling  god. 

Ukel-Zam  is  credited  with  being  the  master  of 
mysteries  and  the  source  of  all  the  secret  orders  of 
the  world  which  began  the  march  of  enhghtenment 
in  the  various  nations.  He  was  the  high  priest  of 
the  old  dusky  priesthood  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 
the  founder  of  the  mysteries  of  Isis  and  Osiris  in 
ancient  Egypt ;  also  the  Gymnosophists  of  India, 
the  Eleusinians  of  Greece,  the  rites  of  Adonis  and 
Bacchus  in  Phcenicia,  the  Gnostics  of  Alexandria, 
and  it  is  claimed  by  some  that  he  laid  the  corner- 
stone of  Freemasonry  at  Jerusalem. 

Be  these  things  as  they  may —  and  they  can  never 
be  accurately  known  —  it  is  certain  that  the  Veiled 
Prophet  has  been  present  at  every  grand  movement 
of  the  human  race  and  presided  at  the  ceremonies. 
He  gazed  upon  the  pyramids  and  obelisks  while 
building;  he  promoted  and  pronounced  all  the  seven 
wonders  of  the  world,  and  before  the  confusion  of 
tongues  he  told  the  builders  of  Babel's  tower  it  was 
labor  thrown  away,  and  that  he  knew  of  a  mountain 
which  towered  above  high-water  mark. 

Ukel-Zam  would  have  participated  in  the  inaugur- 
ation of  some  American  world-wonders  if  he  had 
been  acquainted  with  the  New  World  at  the  time. 
He  first  heard  of  "  Uncle  Sam  "  when  he  was  about  to 
celebrate  his  centennial  in  1876,  and  the  far  foreign 
name  so  much  like  his  own  attracted  his  attention. 
In  that  year  Ukel-Zam  made  a  private  tour  of  inspec- 
tion in  the  New  World,  and  found  it  well  worth  his 
further  attention. 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE. 


313 


The  Centennial  Exposition  was  all  well  enough  — 
once  in  a  hundred  years  —  but  he  thought  the 
country  worth  an  annual  jubilee,  and  pitched  upon 
the  city  of  San  Lotos  as  the  proper  place  to  give  it, 
as  the  people  already  held  an  annual  fair  which  had 
made  a  national  reputation,  and  the  only  one  of  that 
acknowledged  prominence  in  the  land.  He  accord- 
ingly made  all  necessary  arrangements  and  the  Veiled 
Prophets  first  appeared  in  a  grand  street  pageant  in 
October,  1878.     All  know  the  marvellous  result. 

This  revelation  of  the  Veiled  Prophets  is  given  in 
good  faith  and  because  secrecy  is  no  longer  avail- 
able, as  the  monolith  —  Cleopatra's  needle — among 
many  other  interesting  things,  is  inscribed  with  the 
whole  history  of  Ukel-Zam,  which  can  now  be 
readily  and  truly  translated  by  the  aid  of  the  long- 
lost  work  of  Democritus —  a  key  to  the  hieroglyphics 
recently  come  to  light. 


MAN   AND   MONKEY. 


["NCLE  KEITH,  tell   us  that  monkey  story 
again,  which  you  said  you  always  intended 
to  write  out  for  a  newspaper,  or  an  editor's 
^     drawer,  or  something,  and  never  did. 

Now,  if  you'll  promise  to  do  the  writing,  and  have 
it  printed,  I'll  tell  it  over  till  you  know  every  word 
of  it  by  heart. 

It  happened  before  Darwin  ever  thought  of  his 
theory  that  men  were  only  monkeys  with  their  tails 
worn  off,  and  in  fact  my  friend  —  the  hero  of  the 
story  —  really  made  the  discovery  that  Darwin  many 
years  after  claimed.  He  even  went  further,  and 
proved  the  fact  of  relationship  between  monkey  and 
man  in  this  particular  case. 

Julius  and  I  were  school  boys  together.  He  was 
what  we  called  the  bully  of  the  school,  and  had 
never  found  his  match  at  wrestling  and  boxing  during 
those  early  days. 

He  took  a  hand  at  every  new  boy  that  came,  in  a 
square  stand-up  fight,  and  always  came  off  victorious. 
He  did  not  believe  in,  "  Let  dogs  delight,"  etc. 
Cattle  and  horses  always  fought  it  out  that  way, 
and  why  not  boys?  Nature  was  the  first  teacher, 
and  every  boy  should  know  his  rank  in  nature. 
I  had  taken  my  turn  in  the  scale  among  the  rest 
and  knew  my  weight. 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  315 

Jule  was  good-natured,  too,  and  soon  made  up 
his  little  quarrels  with  the  vanquished.  He  seemed 
born  to  rule,  and  at  the  same  time  win  the  love  and 
admiration  of  his  subjects,  who  were  proud  of  their 
monarch,  and  prophesied  great  things  of  him  when  he 
grew  to  be  a  man.  I  predicted  that  he  was  sure  to 
become  a  champion  of  the  prize  ring.  He  finally 
graduated  himself  with  the  highest  honors  by  whip- 
ping the  master  and  one  or  two  of  the  school  com- 
mittee, and  as  he  could  not  be  driven  away  from 
school,  the  academy  had  to  move  away  from  him. 
It  broke  up  suddenly,  and  Jule  went  forth  to  fight 
all  the  world. 

He  and  I  lived  in  different  towns.  What  became 
of  him  I  could  not  learn.  Although  I  often  looked 
for  his  name,  and  the  records  of  his  exploits,  in  the 
book  of  kings  of  the  "  square  ring,"  I  never  found 
them,  and  at  last  concluded  he  had  gone  out  West 
in  search  of  other  worlds  to  conquer. 

Years  and  years  after  these  school  times,  there 
was  a  celebration  in  our  town  one  day.  Now,  our 
town  was  a  notoriously  quiet  town,  an  orderly  town, 
a  Christian  town.  It  was  full  of  religion,  especially 
on  Sundays.  Everybody  knew  just  how  much,  and 
what  kind  of  religion  everybody  else  had,  and  the 
Sabbath  was  Piety's  parade  day.  If  anybody  didn't 
parade  regularly,  he  or  she  was  classed  as  a  heathen. 
The  children  were  not  allowed  to  play,  nor  a  horse 
to  be  led  to  water,  nor  a  cow  to  chew  her  cud  in  the 
streets  from  twelve  o'clock  Saturday  night  till  one 
o'clock  Monday  morning.  If  it  had  been  possible 
the  town  authorities  would  have  stopped  the  cocks 


3l6  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

from  crowing  and  the  winds  from  blowing,  so  pro- 
found and  thorough  was  their  sense  and  practice 
of  religion  on  the  Lords's  day. 

I  tremble  even  now  to  think  of  what  happened  at 
the  time  I  tell  of.  The  celebration,  which  was  a  big 
thing  and  a  rare  event  in  our  Christian  community, 
was  on  Saturday,  and  wound  up  with  a  wine  dinner, 
a  dance  and  a  general  carousal.  Early  in  the  day  I 
discovered  a  familiar  face  in  the  ranks  of  the  strangers 
who  had  come  to  join  in  the  celebration.  I  was  not 
mistaken.  It  was  my  old  friend  Jule.  Our  meeting 
was  a  merry  one,  and  I  soon  became  a  part  of  the 
celebration.  Jule  and  I  had  high  times  that  day  and 
night.  We  kept  it  up  with  the  best  of  them,  and, 
much  to  my  astonishment,  Jule  never  got  into  a 
fight.  He  and  his  full  share  of  wine  seemed  to  be  at 
peace  with  all  mankind.  Probably  the  atmosphere 
of  the  town  had  done  its  work. 

He  was  docile.  I  feared  the  reverse.  The  thought 
came  to  me  that  he  had  sometime  found  more  than 
his  match,  and  quietly  shelved  himself  after  his  de- 
feat. The  sequel  proved  I  was  wrong,  and  that  he 
was  slyly  lying  in  wait  for  something  to  turn  up 
worthy  of  his  good  right  arm.  The  occasion  came 
very  unexpectedly  and  curiously  at  lO  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning.  I  have  reason  to  remember  the 
day  and  the  hour  so  many  years  ago,  and  the  scene 
I  shall  certainly  never  forget. 

Jule  and  I  had  occupied  a  room  together  at  a 
tavern,  the  little  end  of  the  night,  and  were  by  this 
time  the  very  best  of  friends.  He  appeared  to  have 
grown  a  solid,  substantial  man.     Not  a  word  had 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  317 

been  said  of  his  old  pugilistic  habits.  I  had  carefully- 
avoided  the  subject  because  I  feared  that  I  might  stir 
up  unpleasant  reminiscences  of  some  disaster  that 
had  cured  him. 

After  breakfast  we  were  sitting  in  the  large  bar- 
room of  the  tavern,  with  some  dozen  others,  tapering 
off  the  celebration,  with  occasional  calls  on  the  man 
behind  the  bar.  There  was  in  the  room  besides  the 
celebrationists  an  individual  known  to  all  the  town 
by  the  familiar  name  of  Grandad. 

He  was  old  and  growing  gray,  and  had  a  history. 
He  was  a  baboon  of  enormous  size.  It  was  before 
the  discovery  of  the  gorilla  and  chimpanzee,  or  he 
would  have  been  one  or  both  of  those.  The  landlord 
had  taken  him  from  a  circus  in  payment  of  a  board 
bill,  and  Grandad  proved  a  good  speculation  in  draw- 
ing custom.  He  was  tall,  and  broad,  and  brawny, 
with  long  arms  and  a  deep  chest;  and  presented 
altogether  a  stalwart  figure,  and  formidable  front. 
He  looked,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  head  demon  in  a 
spectacular  play,  save  that  he  was  dressed  in  a  spike- 
tail  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  day,  with  his  own  caudal  appendage 
hid  away  for  personal  propriety.  He  had  a  good  set 
of  teeth,  and  well-developed  finger  and  toe  nails. 
The  landlord  enhanced  his.  attractions  by  telling 
marvellous  stories  about  his  strength,  and  savagery 
and  his  feats  as  a  circus  rider.  He  was  kept  chained 
to  a  post  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  there  Gran- 
dad sat  in  a  chair  winking  and  blinking  and  wise, 
with  apparently  as  much  man  in  him  as  some  others 
who  were  there ;  but  he  hadn't  half  a  chance  to  show 


3i8 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


his  humanity,  for  his  master  kept  him  away  from  the 
glasses  and  decanters.  He  was  therefore  about  the 
only  individual  in  the  room  duly  sober  on  this  bright 
Sunday  morning. 

Naturally  he  became  the  subject  of  many  a  joke, 
which  he  neither  laughed  at  nor  resented. 

One  of  the  company  asked  the  name  of  that  un- 
sociable gentleman  by  the  post. 

The  landlord  replied,  Grandad. 

It  was  observed  that  the  family  resemblance  was 
striking,  at  which  the  landlord  bristled  up :  — 

Any  family  might  be  proud  of  him.  Why  he*s 
the  very  king  of  all  animal  creation  as  to  grit  and 
fight.     He  can  lick  anything  human  or  beastly. 

The  immovable  stolidity  of  the  blue-coated  figure 
under  a  continual  fire  of  fun,  was  greatly  at  variance 
with  the  character  that  was  claimed  for  him,  and  at 
length  some  one  ventured  a  remark  prejudical  to  his 
courage  and  fighting  qualities.  In  short  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  called  a  great  cowardly  lubber,  to  his 
face,  and  never  budged  or  colored. 

The  landlord  answered  this  imputation  :  — 

Misters,  that  kind  of  monkey  can  lick  anything  that 
lives  and  breathes  on  earth. 

This  made  a  loud  laugh  all  'round  and  more  sneers 
for  his  monkeyship. 

I  tell  ye  again,  he  can  lick  a  mad  bull,  a  tiger,  a 
lion,  or  a  nest  of  rattlesnakes  if  he  wanted  to ;  but 
he  don't  care  about  it;  he  can't  eat  'em,  and  he  has 
no  need  or  desire  to  kill  'em.  It's  in  him  if  they 
come  in  his  way. 

Another  laugh  all  'round,  but,  curious  eyes  took 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  3I9 

in  all  Grandad's  fighting  points.  It  was  agreed  that 
he  did  look  powerful  and  probably  might  do  those 
things  if  put  to  it. 

This  admission  brought  Jule  to  his  feet,  his  hands 
making  fists,  his  breast  heaving,  and  his  eyes  flashing 
fire.  Everybody  jumped  up  and  stood  in  rapt  ex- 
pectancy at  this  exhibition  of  threatening  pantomime. 
There  was  evidently  going  to  be  a  set-to,  but  whether 
with  man  or  monkey  was  not  clear.  The  nervous 
fists  began  to  play  the  overture  to  a  fight,  and  to  all 
appearance  the  landlord  was  the  object  of  attack. 
At  any  rate  he  thought  it  prudent  to  beat  a  neat  re- 
treat behind  his  bar. 

Jule  was  evidently  choking  with  pent-up  wrath 
and  indignation,  and  at  length  he  slowly  measured 
out  the  following  reflection  in  a  tremendous  effort  to 
be  calm :  — 

Did  my  education  commence  at  the  wrong  end, 
and  set  me  running  backward  all  these  years  ?  Am 
I  told  that  a  monkey  can  stand  up  before  a  bare- 
handed man  and  knock  the  fight  out  of  him  ?  Man  — 
only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels  —  fall  before  an 
unfinished  ape  ? 

This  was  utterea  with  the  feeling  and  effect  of  a 
soliloquy;  then,  in  the  same  tone  and  measure,  and 
more  direct :  — 

Look'ee  here,  bar-keeper,  do  you  pretend  to  assert 
before  this  good  company  of  gentlemen,  that  a  man 
can't  lick  a  monkey?  Do  I  understand  that's  your 
position  on  this  monkey  question  ? 

The  landlord  gently  but  firmly  repHed :  — 

That's  so.     That  there  monkey  can  lick  a  man. 


320         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

Why,  bless  yer  soul,  look  at  him.  He  can  lick  three 
men  on  him  at  once,  but  he's  a  peaceable  being,  and 
don't  want  to  fight.  He's  a  powerful  example  for 
some  men  I've  seen. 

Jule's  manner  became  more  restless,  and  quicker 
and  sharper,  as  he  shot  out  like  the  flash  of  a 
rapier : — 

A  MONKEY  can  lick  a  man,  eh  ? 

The  as  quick  reply  was  :  — 

Tear  him  all  to  pieces  quicker'n  a  wink. 

And  Jule  went  for  the  unsuspecting  baboon  full 
tilt  among  the  bystanders,  and  over  tables  and  chairs 
with  his  rapier  expression,  this  time,  point  out :  — 

What !  A  MAN  can't  lick  a  monkey  ?  and  dealt 
Grandad  a  blow  which  knocked  him  clean  off  the 
chair  and  broke  his  fastenings.  His  sere»e  monkey- 
ship  had  been  laboring  under  the  disadvantage  of 
not  understanding  a  word  of  the  language,  but  he 
now  understood  something  of  its  purport,  and  'had 
decidedly  the  advantage  of  his  assailant  in  agility. 
He  did  not  delay  to  parley  the  question,  but  got  out 
the  front  door  with  wonderful  ease  and  celerity  — 
Jule  after  him,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice :  — 

What !   A  MAN  can't  lick  a  monkey  ? 

The  good  people  of  the  town,  to  nearly  all  of 
whom  I  was  well  known  as  a  sober  citizen,  were 
wending  their  way  to  church,  but  I  could  not  think 
of  leaving  Jule  in  the  midst  of  such  a  doubtful  con- 
test, although  I  had  great  faith  in  his  prowess.  I  fol- 
lowed the  rabble  from  the  bar-room.  Helter-skelter 
in  among  the  astonished  church-goers  scampered 
the   astonished   monkey,  closely  followed   by  Jule, 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  32 1 

asserting  his  superiority  by  the  pecuHar  emphasis 
of  the  issue:  — 

What !   A  MAN  can't  Hck  a  monkey  ? 

He  evidently  meant  to  put  the  mooted  point  for- 
ever at  rest,  and  was  totally  oblivious  to  all  proper- 
ties and  surroundings. 

The  church  bell  called  the  flock  of  the  faithful  in 
vain.  There  was  an  extraordinary  monkey  show, 
and  they  were  resolved  to  see  it  out.  A  lumber- 
yard was  close  at  hand,  in  which  there  was  an  iso- 
lated pile  of  boards,  I  should  think  about  twenty 
feet  high.  One  end  of  the  pile  was  ragged  and 
uneven  with  jutting  and  receding  planks,  while  the 
other  ends  and  sides  were  smooth  and  perpendicular. 
There  being  no  convenient  tree.  Grandad  sought  this 
board-pile  as  the  only  visible  means  of  escape  from 
his  pursuer,  and  he  valiantly  asserted  his  monkey- 
hood  in  climbing  swiftly  to  the  top.  I  did  my  best 
to  dissuade  Jule  from  following,  but  he  violently 
shoved  me  aside  and  harped  in  his  highest  key :  — 

What !   A  MAN  can't  lick  a  monkey  ? 

Up  he  went,  and  when  I  turned  away  in  very 
shame,  old  Deacon  Golong  tapped  me  on  the  arm, 
and  asked :  — 

Who's  your  friend  ?  and  why  do  you  thus  blas- 
pheme the  Lord's  day? 

I  remembered  Peter's  perplexity  under  widely 
different,  and  yet  somewhat  similar  circumstances, 
and  replied :  — 

I  don't  know  the  man ;  never  saw  him  before  ;  but 
the  monkey  is  a  respectable  citizen  of  this  town. 
Common  humanity  taught  me  to  save  the  man  from 


322  THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    MUSES. 

making  a  monkey  of  himself,  Lord's  day  or  no. 
If  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd  leave  this  carnal  festive 
scene  and  go  along. 

By  this  time  the  sounds  in  the  upper  regions  of 
the  lumber  pile  indicated  that  Jule  and  Grandad  were 
hard  at  it,  in  a  pretty  even  match  for  mastership. 
Monkey  took  his  punishment  like  a  man,  and  did  not 
know  how  to  halloo  when  he  had  enough.  He  bit 
and  scratched,  and  tore  his  antagonist's  clothes,  until 
poor  Jule  was  bleeding  all  over  and  almost  nude, 
playing  a  marvellous,  laughable  tragedy  on  that  reek- 
ing stage,  before  a  Sunday-go-to-meeting  congrega- 
tion. It  was  said  that  the  parson  was  also  there, 
hiding  in  the  crowd.  I  will  not  swear  to  that,  but  do 
know  that  he  had  no  occasion  to  preach  a  sermon 
that  morning  in  our  town. 

The  combat  went  on  for  above  an  hour,  with  vary- 
ing fortunes.  Sometimes  it  was  monkey,  and  some- 
times it  was  man  who  had  the  best  of  it.  In  such 
an  even  balance  hung  the  superiority  of  the  human 
race  to  its  speechless  and  hairy  ancestry.  There  was 
scrambling  and  hugging,  and  wrestling  and  hitting, 
and  bitiug  and  falling,  and  rolling  over  and  over  on 
the  sounding  floor,  and  at  every  lull  of  the  fight, 
Jule's  voice  rang  out  above  the  murmurs  of  the 
crowd  loud  and  clear :  — 

What!     A  MAN  can't  lick  a  monkey? 

Jule  scorned  to  take  a  mean  advantage  of  his 
adversary,  on  account  of  his  human  nature,  and  de- 
veloped reason,  and  so  fought  the  monkey  on  his 
own  ground,  with  his  natural  weapons,  and  as  near 
as  possible  according  to  prize  ring  rules.     At  length 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  323 

he  got  monkey's  head  in  chancery,  and  letting  into 
him  a  shower  of  rapid  blows  he  raised  his  face 
seamed  with  scratches,  and  smeared  with  blood  to 
to  the  expectant  throng  below,  and  in  triumph 
shouted :  — 

What !     A  MAN  can't  lick  a  monkey  ? 

The  battle  was  ended  —  the  victory  won  —  the 
momentous  question  was  settled  —  a  man  can  lick  a 
monkey. 

Jule  took  Grandad  by  a  fragment  of  the  chain  which 
he  had  carried  with  him  in  his  flight,  and  began  to 
clamber  to  the  ground.  The  Sunday-school  scat- 
tered like  leaves  before  a  blast,  for  Jule,  however  he 
might  be  tolerated  on  the  stage  at  a  respectable  dis- 
tartce,  was  too  scant  of  drapery  to  appear  among  the 
spectators,  many  of  whom  were  pious  women  and 
tender  children.  Jule  and  Grandad  had  a  compara- 
tively clear  street  back  to  the  tavern,  and  they  seemed 
to  have  arrived  at  a  pleasant,  mutual  understanding. 

The  landlord  was  the  only  spectator  who  did  not 
enjoy  the  exhibition,  and  as  soon  as  the  fight  was 
over  he  had  crept  sullenly  back  behind  his  bar, 
where  he  stood  with  lowering  brows  when  the  crowd 
re-entered. 

Jule,  with  a  confirmed  sense  of  his  superiority, 
though  his  looks  indicated  that  he  had  the  worst  of 
the  battle,  as  he  led  in  his  late  antagonist,  yelled 
out:  — 

Landlord,  a  gin  cocktail !  What !  A  man  can't 
lick  a  monkey  ? 

All  smiled  ;  even  the  landlord  smiled ;  he  couldn't 
help  it.     Grandad  evidently  understood  that  the  affair 


324 


THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


was  over ;  went  to  his  post,  and  solemn,  dignified, 
supremely  respectable,  took  his  seat  on  the  chair, 
with  one  good  eye  left,  winking  and  blinking  and 
wise.  For  aught  I  know  he  is  sitting  there  still, 
drawing  custom.     So  ended  the  celebration. 


HALF-PAST  FIVE    IN  THE  MORNING. 


yT  was  late  in  June  in  the  factory  village  of  Glen- 
Ryddle  in  Pennsylvania's  oldest  county  —  the 
oldest  from  the  fact  that  on  the  river  edge  of  it 
^  Penn  first  set  foot  in  his  New  World  domain. 

A  dashiijg  stream  leaps  and  runs  in  and  out  among 
the  woods  and  hills  and  rocks,  apparently  looking  for 
something  to  do,  until  finally,  tired  of  its  race,  it 
wallows  in  the  marshes  of  the  Delaware,  and,  fallen 
asleep  among  the  reeds,  is  gathered  up  in  the  arms 
of  the  tides  and  carried  off. 

Early  settlers  took  its  babbling  suggestion  of 
"  water  power,"  and  it  became  a  mill  stream. 

At  several  turns  of  its  course  they  caught  and  held 
it  between  the  hills,  and  when  it  had  done  their  mill- 
ing they  set  it  free  in  foaming,  flashing  cascades, 
soon  to  be  caught  and  enslaved  again  after  its  wild 
bound  for  liberty.  So  they  alternately  checked  and 
accelerated  its  course  down  the  narrow  glen  it  had 
found  from  its  birth  spring  to  the  billowy  bosom  of 
mother  ocean. 

Glenn- Ryddle,  one  of  its  stopping  places,  is  a  knot 
in  the  two  chains  of  bordering  hills  which  girt  the 
stream  and  seem  to  forbid  its  further  progress.  Cot- 
ton and  woolen  mills  are  rooted  in  the  rocks  at  the 
base,  and  the  straggling  factory  town  rambles  up  on 


326  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

all  sides  as  if  to  get  farther,  and  farther  away  from 
the  hum  of  the  spindles  and  looms  —  the  great 
house  of  Glenn-Ryddle  at  the  summit  of  the  highest 
of  the  hills  being  entirely  beyond  the  hum. 

A  railway  dashes  around  one  hill  side  from  some- 
where, and  after  holding  its  trafficking  trains  in  sight 
of  the  glen  for  a  moment,  whirls  around  the  other 
side  and  disappears  —  no  matter  where.  It  tells  of  a 
world  from  which  it  came  and  speeds  to  a  world 
waiting  for  it  beyond,  and  the  secluded  factory  town 
is  a  part  of  both  worlds,  caring  little  for  either. 

The  coming  and  going  trains  are  of  no  interest  to 
the  factory  hands  of  Glenn-Ryddle,  for  they  could 
not  get  away  from  their  mill  life  if  they  would,  and 
doubtless  they  would  not  desire  to  go  if  they  could. 
They  make  a  contented  and  happy  community  at 
work  in  the  mills  all  day,  and  gossiping  and  garden- 
ing on  their  blooming  hill  sides  in  the  evening. 

The  greatest  sorrow  that  ever  visited  Glenn-Ryd- 
dle, came  to  the  great  house  on  the  top  of  the  highest 
hill,  above  and  beyond  the  noise  of  the  humming 
looms.  It  is  a  luxurious  country  house,  surrounded 
by  green  lawns  and  bright  blooms.  The  sorrow 
came  on  the  last  day  of  June  at  half-past  five  one 
morning. 

Aurora  Ryddle  was  lying  insensible  in  a  chamber 
of  that  house.  Her  friends  were  around  weeping, 
fearing — listening  for  her  last  breath. 

Many  of  the  factory  people  would  have  given  their 
own  lives  for  the  life  of  the  mill  master's  young  bride, 
whom  he  had  brought  home  scarcely  a  twelve-month 
before,   whose   beauty  was   their  pride,  and  whose 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE. 


327 


bounty  had  often  flowed  down  the  hill  sides  into  their 
cottages. 

The  clock  in  that  chamber  was  stopped  at  half-past 
five  in  the  morning,  and  no  sound  save  smothered 
sobs  was  heard  in  the  room.  Even  the  spindles  and 
looms  stopped  for  a  day,  and  the  sorrow  flowed  down 
the  hill  sides  and  filled  the  cottages  like  a  fog  of  the 
mill  stream. 

But  after  all,  there  was  no  funeral  from  the  great 
house  of  Glenn-Ryddle.  A  strange  thing  had  oc- 
curred in  that  chamber.  After  some  hours,  the 
watchers  saw  a  quivering  and  flushing  in  the  calm 
white  face  on  the  pillow.  The  faint  returning  breath 
just  fluttered  the  down  of  an  ostrich  plume,  and 
Aurora  Ryddle  floated  back  to  life  on  the  pillowed 
couch  which  for  a  time  was  believed  to  be  her 
death-bed. 

Days  and  months  passed,  and  the  summer  colored 
into  autumn  tints,  and  autumn  faded  into  winter,  and 
spring  and  summer  came  and  went,  and  the  pale, , 
beautiful  face  still  looked  up  out  of  the  pillows,  won- 
dering at  the  stillness  of  the  world.  Even  time 
seemed  to  circle  in  a  pool  like  the  mill  stream,  and 
the  hands  of  the  clock  in  the  chamber  forever  stood 
at  half-past  fivd. 

Aurora  Ryddle  clung  to  a  very  slender  thread  of 
life,  and  consciousness  came  slowly,  slowly.  At 
length  bodily  health  and  strength  in  a  measure  re- 
turned, but  the  senses  seemed  to  be  curtained  within 
her  wide-open,  soft  eyes.  They  looked  inward  al- 
ways until  they  were  startled  by  some  sudden  out- 
ward presence. 


328  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

Lamotte  Ryddle,  the  mill  master,  was  a  kind  man, 
much  older  than  his  wife,  and  much  engrossed  in 
business.  He  was  the  father  and  temporal  provi- 
dence of  the  village  of  Glenn-Ryddle,  and  he  loved 
Aurora's  quiet,  simple  beauty,  chiefly  as  an  ornament 
of  the  house.  If  it  was  not  heart-fervor  it  was  the 
warmest  worship  he  was  capable  of  offering  at  the 
shrine  of  beauty. 

Aurora  knew  the  true  value  of  her  husband's  kind 
heart  and  his  sentiment  for  her,  and  while  she  was 
not  unhappy  during  the  first  year  of  her  married 
life,  she  could  not  help  dreaming  of  another  being 
that  might  come  into  her  arms  and  home  to  fill  a 
certain  vague  void  in  her  longing  heart. 

On  that  memorable  June  morning  her  conscious- 
ness was  shattered.  When  she  first  caught  hold 
of  some  scraps  of  memory  and  turned  them  to  view, 
her  mind  was  as  a  warped  and  broken  mirror  and 
made  distortions.  Then  came  sudden  frenzies  of 
laughing,  weeping  moaning  and  disjointed  talk. 
She  could  not  bear  the  presence  of  her  husband, 
and  hid  her  face  at  his  approach.  His  coming  foot- 
steps seemed  to  give  her  so  many  electric  shocks, 
which  at  his  retreat  became  less  and  less  violent 
until  the  creak  of  his  boots  died  away  on  the  gravel 
walk.  For  her  benefit  and  possible  restoration  he 
banished  himself  from  her  presence  and  walked  with 
muffled  steps  about  his  home.  She  was  nervous 
and  excited  in  the  presence  of  any  one  who  had 
been  familiar  to  her  in  that  house  —  servants  and 
all — and  a  competent  care-taker  was  needed.  One 
was  found  in  an  elder  maiden  sister  —  Ruth  Dart  — 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  329 

who  had  years  before  given  up  Hving  her  own  Hfe 
and  resolved  to  live  for  others.  Ruth  and  Aurora 
were  not  only  sisters,  but  had  always  been  dear 
friends,  and  upon  separating  they  kept  up  a  regular 
weekly  correspondence  until  it  was  broken  up,  with 
other  fami>ly  regularities,  that  day.  Ruth  came,  and 
she  was  the  first  object  Aurora  saw  clearly  in  the 
old  Hght.  Sisterly  love  and  the  memories  of  life  in 
the  old  homestead  began  the  cure.  When  the  sis- 
ters were  together  the  stricken  one  was  strong  in  the 
support,  and  thus  Aurora's  reason  began  a  second 
dawn. 

There  was  hope  now,  but  the  most  difficult  matter 
of  all  was  yet  to  manage. 

During  Aurora's  first  days  of  returning  strength, 
and  apparently  rational  consciousness,  visitors  had 
come  into  her  chamber,  and  on  one  or  two  occasions 
brought  with  them  young  children.  It  was  found 
that  the  sight  of  a  child  caused  her  a  fit  of  frenzy,  and 
a  child's  cry  threw  her  into  convulsions.  Children 
were  thenceforth  forbidden  to  enter  the  invahd's 
room.  This  peculiarity  of  the  malady  made  Ruth 
great  uneasiness  and  set  her  invention  to  work. 
There  was  a  good  cause  for  anxiety,  and  motive  and 
scope  for  invention.  Ruth  thought  if  she  could  only 
cure  Aurora's  repugnance  to  children  the  restoration 
would  be  complete,  and  she  set  herself  about  the 
task.  It  was  a  case  that  could  not  be  hastily  treated. 
It  might  take  years,  and  it  did. '  There  was  great 
pain  in  it,  too,  for  the  sister  nurse,  but  she  was 
patient.  Besides  the  care  of  her  sister,  she  found  a 
child  which  she  resolved  to  train  for  a  future  pur- 


330  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

pose,  and  the  latter,  under  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances, could  not  live  in  the  house.  Aurora  had 
several  times  heard,  or  fancied  she  heard,  the  laugh- 
ing or  crying,  or  the  pattering  feet  of  a  child  at  play- 
in  the  house,  and  the  sounds  or  fancies  always  made 
her  worse.  The  presence  of  childhood  was  there- 
fore strictly  interdicted  in  the  house  of  Glenn- 
Ryddle.  And  without  the  ability  to  endure,  and 
even  love  that  which  had  been  a  secret  and  holy 
longing,  the  restoration  of  Aurora  Ryddle  could 
never  be  complete.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  This 
was  the  problem  Ruth  had  to  solve  in  the  perform- 
ance of  her  sisterly  mission. 

Beyond  the  lawn  of  the  Ryddle  mansion  a  child 
was  already  in  rearing  by  a  couple  of  factory  people 
in  a  little  cottage  on  the  hill-side.  There  were 
several  other  children  in  the  family,  but  one  little 
girl  was  put  in  innocent  training  for  the  special 
purpose.  At  the  proper  time  she  was  expected  to 
play  a  child's  part  in  a  domestic  drama  without 
knowing  why  or  wherefore.  Ruth  often  visited 
this  family, 'and  furnished  them  with  comforts  not 
within  the  reach  of  their  means.  She  had  long 
talks  and  rambles  with  the  little  one,  probably 
rehearsing  the  important  part  she  expected  the  child 
to  play. 

And  thus  five  years  passed,  in  and  around  the 
master's  mansion.  They  expired  on  the  last  day 
of  June  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning. 

In  the  meantime  Aurora  Ryddle  had  recovered 
so  far  as  to  take  an  interest  in  things  outside  of  her 
chamber.     A  strange   coincidence  of  her   days   in 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  33 1 

these  years  was,  that,  although  the  clock  in  her 
room  still  silently  pointed  its  immovable  hands,  she 
always  awoke  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning,  and 
first  opened  her  eyes  wide  on  the  dumb  face  of  the 
clock.  She  had  a  mysterious  sympathy  with  time 
as  it  went,  and  that  particular  point  of  time  as  it 
stood.  She  would  never  listen  to  her  sister's  oft- 
repeated  suggestions  to  start  the  clock  for  company's 
sake.  She  seemed  to  want  it  still,  that  she  might 
take  hold  of  each  day's  life  precisely  at  that  point. 
It  was  a  morbid  fancy,  perhaps,  but  it  meant  awak- 
ened interest  in  her  life,  such  as  it  was. 

So  the  clock  in  the  bed-chamber  had  always  stood 
still  and  had  the  advantage  of  all  other  time-keepers 
in  being  precisely  right  twice  every  twenty-four  hours. 
But  to  her  it  was  always  half-past  five  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  took  no  note  of  evening  time.  When  it 
was  right,  in  the  morning,  Aurora  always  rose  and 
looked  out  on  the  lawn  from  her  window.  It  faced 
the  east,  and,  in  the  summer  time,  the  sunbeams  shot 
into  the  room  through  the  mists  that  overhung  the 
glen.  When  the  sun  was  out  she  looked  and  looked, 
till  the  fog  was  gone,  and  she  saw  the  clear  sky.  So 
she  began  day  after  day,  in  a  calendar  of  time  that 
never  moved  for  her. 

On  the  particular  day  just  noted,  a  movement  be- 
gan. She  saw  just  within  the  closed  iron  gate  of 
the  lawn  a  little  fairy-like  child,  skipping  around  on 
the  sparkling,  dewy  grass,  pulling  sprigs  of  ever- 
greens and  plucking  flowers  in  apparent  glee.  It 
was  evidently  a  girl.  She  was  alone.  Something 
in  the  figure  of  the  child  transfixed  her  gaze.     It  was 


332  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

bright   and   beautiful   as   the   June   morning's    face 
reflected  in  all  the  colors  of  garden  and  lawn. 

The  impulse  to  talk  to  the  child  was  too  strong  to 
be  resisted.  Aurora  opened  the  window  and  called 
and  beckoned.  The  little  spirit  of  the  morning  saw 
her  and  ran  nimbly  towards  the  house.  As  she  came 
the  day  brightened  and  the  clear  sky  about  the  sun 
came  out  through  the  mists.  She  came  under  the 
open  window  with  the  bunch  of  green  and  roses  in 
her  hand  all  wet  with  dew,  and  her  face  and  hair 
and  dress  bespangled  with  clinging  rose-leaves  and 
flower-dust. 

Aurora  cried  for  joy  at  the  pretty  sight  and  ex- 
claimed :  — 

"  Darling,  who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  little  Lyda." 

"  Whose  Lyda  ?     Lyda  what  ?  " 

"Just  Lyda's  all  the  name  I've  got." 

"But  how  did  you  get  here,  little  dear?  " 

"A  lady  brought  me  and  put  me  in  the  gate." 

"  Who  was  the  lady,  Lyda  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  never,  never  to  tell,  and  Lyda  said 
she  wouldn't  —  so  she  mustn't." 

The  mystery  of  the  child's  appearance  in  the 
grounds  awakened  an  intense  and  healthy  interest  in 
Aurora's  mind.  She  questioned  the  little  elf  of 
Flora  further:  — 

"  What  did  the  lady  say  when  she  put  you  in  the 
gate  ?  " 

"  She  said  a  dood  lady  lived  here,  who  wanted  a 
little  dirl  like  me." 

"  Have  you  no  papa  or  mamma  who  wants  you  ?  " 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  333 

"  Papa  and  mamma  are  poor,  and  they  have  plenty- 
more." 

"  So  they  gave  their  little  Lyda  to  the  lady,  did 
they  ?  " 

*•  Yes ;  they  sent  Lyda  away." 

"Lyda,  would  you  like  to  live  with  me  ?  " 

"If  you  are  the  dood  lady." 

"Come  up  to  me,  darling;  the  door  is  open." 

And  Lyda  bounded  on  the  porch  and  upstairs  and 
into  the  chamber,  and  brought  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  with  her  and  a  new  life  into  that  room. 

All  the  while  of  the  talk  Ruth  Dart  was  standing 
within  the  door  listening  and  rejoicing  over  the  suc- 
cess of  her  plot,  and  when  Lyda  was  invited  in,  Ruth 
showed  herself  in  the  door,  which  reassured  the  child 
and  hastened  her  entrance.  Ruth  and  Lyda  ex- 
changed no  words.  The  child  hurried  upstairs  and 
Ruth's  eyes  filled  as  she  went. 

An  important  part  of  the  training  had  been  that 
Ruth  was  not  to  be  known  in  the  matter,  and  the 
child  was  likely  to  honor  it.  So  far  all  had  gone 
well. 

Lyda  was  a  pretty,  graceful  child,  and  her  earnest, 
plaintive  face  and  great  pleading  eyes  commanded 
love  at  sight.  Wet  with  the  dew  and  morning  mists 
as  she  was  Aurora  caught  and  folded  her  in  her 
arms,  saying :  — 

"  Little  Lyda  shall  live  with  me  till  somebody 
comes  to  take  her  away." 

"  But  you  won't  let  'em,  will  you  ?  I  want  to  live 
with  you  'cause  your' re  dood  and  have  no  odder 
little  dirl.     I'll  be  very  dood." 


334  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

The  child  struck  the  right  chord  in  that  longing 
heart.  A  healthy  impulse  bounded  in  Aurora's  veins 
and  brought  fresh  color  to  her  face.  The  child  saw 
her  conquest  and  put  her  lips  up  to  be  kissed.  The 
offer  was  not  refused,  and  so  the  sweet  compact  be- 
tween the  newly  awakened  woman  and  the  trusting 
little  stranger  child  was  sealed. 

Lyda  brought  nothing  with  her  but  what  she  held 
in  her  hand,  and  the  clothes  she  had  on.  She  was 
all  there,  and  for  the  time  at  least,  all  Aurora's. 
Aurora  took  the  flowers  and  sprigs  of  evergreen,  and 
put  them  in  place  in  the  room,  and  then  said :  — 

"  Lyda,  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Five  years  old  to-day,  they  used  to  say  —  at  half- 
past  five  in  the  morning." 

Aurora  started ;  looked  at  the  clock,  then  into 
the  child's  face,  then  went  to  her  dressing-case  and 
looked  at  something  there.  She  lifted  the  child  up 
and  both  looked  into  the  mirror.  She  shook  her 
head.  Something  she  was  looking  for,  and  once  or 
twice  thought  she  had  seen,  had  fled.  If  Lyda 
only  looked  enough  like  her  to  pass  for  her  child  it 
would  make  the  bond  so  much  the  dearer  between 
them,  she  thought;  but  she  was  so  like,  and  yet 
so  different;  her  face  was  a  puzzle  as  well  as  her 
coming. 

"See,  what  I  have  here,"  she  said  to  Ruth,  as  she 
entered  as  usual  to  assist  her  sister  in  making  her 
simple  morning  toilet.  "A  little  Lyda,  just  five 
years  old  to-day.'*  Ruth  looked  sufficiently  aston- 
ished. Explanations  followed,  while  Ruth  was  busy 
most  of  the  time  with  her  back  turned  to  the  child. 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  335 

who  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  introduction  well. 
She  was  not  to  seem  to  know  Ruth,  and  another 
point  in  the  game  was  made.  Ruth  was  fond  of 
children,  and  at  once  took  a  mighty  liking  for  this 
child. 

"  You  will  surely  keep  her,"  she  said,  with  plead- 
ing interest. 

"  I  am  to  be  your  mamma,  am  I  not,  little  Lyda  ?  " 

"And  you  will  be  my  Aunty  Ruth,"  chimed  the 
child. 

Ruth  took  her  up  and  kissed  her  a  loving  acqui- 
escence, and  Lyda  was  installed  a  member  of  that 
family. 

And  life  became  beautiful  again  in  the  house  of 
the  master  of  Glenn-Ryddle.  Lyda  unlocked  the 
closed  doors,  opened  the  windows  and  let  in  the 
light  and  air.  She  soon  caught  sight  of  Lamotte 
Ryddle ;  had  she  seen  him  before  ?  Perhaps.  At 
any  rate,  she  ran  to  meet  him  in  the  walk,  took  his 
hand,  and  said :  — 

'*  Come  and  see  my  mamma." 

He  went  unresistingly  to  the  chamber  from  which 
he  had  been  banished  five  years  before.  He  had 
been  morbid  too,  and  almost  a  stranger  in  his  own 
house.     Lyda  led  him  in,  and  said  :  — 

"  See,  mamma,  Lyda  has  brought  papa  home." 

And  all  the  colors  of  the  dawn  lived  in  Aurora's 
happy  face.  And  he,  holding  her  in  his  arms  again, 
drank  fresh  draughts  of  her  beauty.  What  magic 
has  the  child  wrought?  Close  the  door  on  this 
sacred  scene. 

Little  Lyda  completely  changed  all  the  life  and 


33^  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

feeling  and  sentiment  of  the  house.  She  was  a  new 
spark  of  heaven's  fire  that  had  dropped  down  there 
Hke  an  aerolite,  and  made  an  illumination  of  calm, 
sweet  effulgence.  It  streamed  down  the  hill-sides, 
brightened  the  cottage  windows  and  shone  on  the  mills 
in  the  glen.  Even  the  spindles  and  looms  had  a  hap- 
pier hum,  and  the  joy  of  the  good  old  time  came 
back  in  ifs  full  tide  to  the  factory  village  of  Glenn- 
Ryddle.  Visitors  returned  to  the  master's  mansion, 
and  all  moved  again  in  the  old  way  except  the  clock 
in  the  chamber,  which  still  pointed  to  half-past  five. 

Lyda  became  a  most  interesting  study  to  Aurora 
and  the  rest,  and  Ruth  had  a  deeper  interest  than 
any  in  her  behavior,  but  of  another  kind.  She  had 
many  private  talks  with  Lyda,  which  had  a  secret 
meaning,  and  promised  further  developments. 

Except  on  these  stolen  occasions,  Aurora  and 
Lyda  were  inseparable  companions.  They  rambled 
together  in  the  walks  and  gardens  and  groves,  and 
beyond  the  iron  gate  by  which  Lyda  had  so 
mysteriously  entered  —  such  a  little  thing,  and  yet 
bringing  so  much  of  life. 

Aurora  was  anxious  and  troubled  about  two  or 
three  things.  She  wanted  to  ask  Ruth  a  question 
or  two  which  she  knew  Ruth  could  answer  and  set 
her  at  ease,  if  she  would,  and  yet  she  feared  to  ask 
them.  No  one  volunteered  to  tell  her  anything  of 
the  past,  part  of  which  was  a  blank  to  her,  except 
Lyda,  and  she  could  not  help  chattering  about  her 
'*  odder  home."  She  studiously  refrained  from  ask- 
ing Lyda  any  more  questions  about  her  former  life, 
out  of  respect  to  the  child's  promise  not  to  tell  the 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  33/ 

thing  she  wanted  most  to  know.  Probably  she 
wanted  the  child  to  forget. 

One  day  Lyda  was  particularly  chatty.  She  told 
Aurora  a  little  domestic  incident  about  her  father 
and  mother,  her  brothers  and  sisters  and  herself.  It 
turned  on  some  matter  of  family  discipline,  which 
showed  that  the  children  had  been  reared  by  rule. 
When  she  had  finished  she  waited  for  a  response. 
Aurora  said  nothing,  and  turning  away  began  talking 
to  the  child  upon  some  other  subject.  Lyda  stole 
into  a  corner,  and  when  Aurora  soon  after  called 
her,  her  eyes  were  trickling  tears. 

That  night  after  she  retired  early  to  bed  Aurora 
heard  her  talking,  and  listened  at  the  door  of  her 
little  room.  Lyda  had,  in  fancy,  summoned  her 
brothers  and  sisters  about  her,  and  was  bidding 
them  a  formal  and  final  farewell.  Her  good-byes 
to  Clarence  and  Julie,  and  May  and  Florence  and 
little  Harry,  with  bits  of  advice  and  crumbs  of  con- 
solation for  her  going  away,  were  touching  to  tears. 
And  she  was  crying  too,  when  she  said,  for  their 
comfort:  — 

"  ril  never  see  you  any  more,  but  you  will  know 
I  love  my  odder  mamma,  and  my  odder  home; 
be  dood." 

Then  she  repeated  all  their  names  in  her  little 
prayer,  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  Lyda  crept  timidly  up  to  Aurora 
and  taking  her  hand  said:  — 

"  Mamma,  I  want  to  tell  you  anodder  story." 

Aurora  started,  turned  her  face  slightly,  and 
moved  her  hand  as  if  she  did  not  want  to  hear  it. 


338  THE   MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

Lyda  persisted,  and  smiling  through  starting  tear 
drops  continued :  — 

**  But  it  isn't  about  my  odder  home." 

Aurora  was  conquered  again,  and  listened  to  the 
prattling  recital.  And  little  Lyda  never  again  named 
her  brothers  and  sisters  in  Aurora's  hearing,  or  spoke 
of  any  "odder  home." 

There  was  a  merry  Christmas  time  in  the  great 
house  of  Glenn-Ryddle.  The  first  family  gathering 
there  had  been  there  for  years  made  the  festivi- 
ties. There  were  fathers  and  mothers,  and  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  uncles  and  aunts,  and  cousins  — 
old  and  middle-aged,  and  young  and  infantile.  It 
was  a  good  company  and  a  rare  occasion  —  an  old- 
fashioned  country  family  reunion.  The  members 
of  the  family  came  from  far  and  near,  and  the 
scattered  of  three  generations  were  gathered  together 
on  Christmas-day.  Little  Lyda  was  introduced  to  a 
host  of  new  relations  —  rather  she  introduced  her- 
self, upon  being  asked  her  name  :  — 

"Lyda  Ryddle." 

Several  of  her  little  cousins  were  present,  and 
among  them,  the  nearest  her  own  age,  was  Aurora 
Dart,  three  years  old,  who  insists  upon  calling  her- 
self "  Owlie  "  Dart.  And  Lyda  and  Owlie  had  grand 
larks,  with  the  half  a  dozen  other  little  ones.  Lyda 
being  the  leader  in  the  romping  games. 

In  fact,  Lyda  captured  the  whole  company,  old 
and  young,  and  was  the  fairy,  dispensing  the  sweet 
things  and  the  pretty  things  of  the  Christmas 
tree. 

Aurora  was  warmly  and  unanimously  congratu- 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  339 

lated  by  all  upon  having  drawn  such  a  prize  as 
Lyda  from  capricious  fortune's  wheel.  All  said, 
as  with  one  voice,  **  Keep  the  child,  she  will  honor 
you." 

Aurora  was  at  first  a  little  disconcerted  at  the  con- 
cert—**  Keep  the  child" — which  she  had  already 
resolved  to  do,  if  permitted.  She  drew  Lyda  to  her 
as  she  sat  and  said  :  — 

"  I  love  Lyda  as  my  own  child.  She  has  come 
into  my  heart  to  stay,  if  nobody  comes  to  tear  her 
away." 

Then  little  Lyda  chirped  in  :  — 

"  Aunt  Ruth  said  I  was  to  live  here  always,  when 
she  put  me  in  the  gate." 

Had  the  little  tongue  slipped  ? 

No.  Ruth  and  Aurora  were  looking  in  each 
other's  faces  —  both  full  of  strange  emotion.  At 
length  Ruth  broke  the  silence  :  — - 

"  Yes,  I  planned  it  all  for  the  best,  for  you,  for 
Lyda.  I  know  Lyda's  history.  She  is  yours  if  you 
will  adopt  her  as  a  daughter.  I  promise  you  she  will 
never  be  claimed  by  another  mother.  Will  you  take 
her  as  your  own  child?" 

There  was  a  pause  of  suspense. 

Aurora  gazed  in  Lyda's  face.  She  saw  the  old 
look  that  charmed  her  at  first.  She  kissed  the  half- 
open  wondering  mouth  and  wide  eyes,  and  said  with 
emphasis  and  feeling :  — 

"Since  you  all  seem  to  desire  it,  I  take  Lyda  as 
my  own." 

Then  spoke  Ruth  with  a  face  and  tone  of  in- 
spiration :  — 


340  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

"  Sister  Aurora,  there  is  no  need  in  adopting  her. 
Lyda  Ryddle  is  your  own  child !  " 

There  was  a  still  small  voice :  "  Mamma,  I'll  be 
dood." 

That  was  Aurora's  Christmas  gift,  and  it  was  a  sur- 
prise to  no  one  present  save  Aurora  herself,  who  had 
just  come  out  of  the  dark  into  a  great  light. 

Before  they  separated  for  the  night —  some  to  go 
home,  and  some  from  a  distance,  to  remain  in  the 
house  — all  received  a  cordial  invitation  to  make  New 
Year's  calls.  Open  house  for  the  village  and  for  all. 
Aunt  Ruth  had  evidently  given  Lyda  some  further 
instructions,  for  the  glad  little  thing  pulled  Aurora's 
dress,  and  said  before  all  the  company :  — 

"  Mamma,  do  you  know  on  New  Year's  eve  I'll  be 
half-past  five." 

"Yes,  my  darling,  and  we'll  start  the  clock  at 
half-past  five  in  the  morning.'* 

The  spindles  and  looms  in  the  mills  of  Glenn-Ryddle 
were  stopped  on  New  Year's  day  to  celebrate  the 
beginning  of  a  new  time  in  the  master's  mansion. 


POOR  OLD  HORSE, 


SCRAPS  OF  HIS  SKIN  AND  BONES. 


NE  day  a  friend  of  ours  in  a  musical  mood  be- 
gan to  hum  a  strange  tune  as  if  he  had  just 
caught  a  sound  of  his  boyhood  which  came 
suddenly  upon  him  like  a  long  lost  brother.  He 
kept  on  crooning  and  crooning,  and  presently  some 
strange  words  tumbled  into  the  tune,  which  seemed 
as  if  they  had  been  there  a  long  time  ago.  The 
words  were :  "  Poor  old  horse  !  Let  him  die."  Now, 
the  friend  of  whom  we  speak  was  not  in  a  bodily 
condition  to  suggest  that  the  words  were  peculiarly 
applicable  to  himself.  Still,  often  and  often  from  his 
Hps  came  the  sad  refrain  :  "  Poor  old  horse  !  Let  him 
die."  At  length  he  explained  :  "  That  is  a  song  my 
grandfather  used  to  sing  before  I  left  the  old  sod. 
What's  the  rest  of  it  ?  "  Then  a  thought  seemed  to 
flash  upon  him  like  a  telegraphic  message  on  the 
cable  of  memory,  from  that  far  time  across  the  blue 
deep,  and  these  words  came  marching  with  measured 
pace :  — 

"  But  now  I'm  growing  old, 

I  can  get  no  corn  at  all, 
I'm  obliged  to  crop  the  short  grass 

That  grows  all  'round  the  stall ! 
Poor  old  horse !     Let  him  die." 


342  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

This  was  an  encouraging  addition,  but  it  was  the 
most  that  would  come.  Days  and  weeks  passed,  but 
still  no  other  word  of  that  old  song  fell  into  line. 
The  rest  was  completely  effaced  by  the  successive 
impressions  that  had  been  crowded  upon  the  tablet 
of  the  brain  during  a  busy  life.  The  disconsolate 
singer  had  lost  part  of  himself  which  he  was  anxious 
to  recover,  and  never  ceased  harping  upon  *'  Poor 
Old  Horse."  He  searched  thorough  all  the  libraries, 
rummaged  all  the  book  stores,  pestered  the  publish- 
ing houses  in  Europe  and  America,  and,  at  length, 
actually  made  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  and 
visited  England,  Ireland  and  Scotland  for  the  pur- 
pose of  hunting  up  the  "  Poor  Old  Horse." 

He  was  haunted  by  a  sound,  a  word,  and  the 
dim  vision  of  a  shadowy  time,  which  had  thrust 
itself  between  him  and  the  present.  It  was  a  skele- 
ton which  he  wished  to  clothe  with  flesh  and  endow 
with  life. 

At  first  his  friends  laughed  at  him,  but  the  matter 
became  too  solemn  for  a  joke  and  they  began  to  de- 
vise means  of  helping  him  across  the  chasm  and  re- 
pairing the  lapse  of  memory.  But  he,  in  pursuit  of 
the  phantom  horse,  departed  for  other  lands. 

During  his  absence  there  was  a  meeting  for  con- 
sultation. The  first  question  to  be  decided  was 
whether  the  thing  sought  ever  existed,  and  if  it  had 
whether  it  was  worth  the  search.  No  doubt  the  old 
horse  and  the  song  had  been.  If  the  song  was  a  good 
song,  why  had  it  not  been  printed  ?  A  great  many 
good  words  had  not  been  printed,  because  the  speak- 
ers did  not  know  their  value.     Trifles,  too,  become 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE. 


343 


great  things  in  centuries.  Therefore  this  song,  though 
trivial  when  it  was  sung,  might  be  a  subUme  anthem 
now.  The  discussion  resulted  in  adopting  the  most 
direct  and  simple  method  of  reaching  lost  things  in 
hidden  places,  which  strange  to  say,  none  of  those 
interested  had  thought  of  before,  and  some  of  the 
party  were  printers  too.  They  made  up  a  "  pony 
purse"  to  give  to  some  "influential  and  widely  cir- 
culated journal,"  and  soon  after  appeared  an  adver- 
tisement something  like  this  :  — 

**  Wanted  —  The  words   of   an  old  song,   entitled    'Poor  Old 
Horse  !     Let  Him  Die. 

"Address,  OLD  HORSE." 


This  brought  the  answer  —  in  fact  many  answers. 
Answers  innumerable  came  from  town  and  country  — 
far  and  near.  All  at  once  everybody  had  an  answer, 
although  no  one  seemed  to  know  anything  before. 
The  answers  had  apparently  been  stowed  away  for 
years,  just  waiting  for  this  grand  opportunity  to  tell 
what  they  knew  about  horses.  The  amount  of 
equine  information  that  people  have  is  astounding. 
The  literary  acquirements  of  the  masses,  too,  are  re- 
markable. They  knew  so  much ;  printed  books  and 
journals  knew  so  little  about  what  was  probably  a 
brilliant  gem  of  literature.  *'  Poor  old  horse."  Had 
the  press  in  its  mighty  strides  left  this  sterling  Eng- 
lish song  behind  ?  Had  it  indeed  ever  known  of  its 
existence?  or  had  it  rejected  it  as  unworthy  of  its 
voice?  These  are  questions  which  the  results  of  this 
song-hunt  must  answer.  Said  results  have  their 
frivolous  as  well  as  substantial  phase.     Correspond- 


344  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 

ents  are  earnest,  flippant,  grave  or  gay  according  to 
humor.  One  wants  to  know  if  this  is  a  "hobby 
horse."  Others  suggest  "  clothes  horse,"  **  saw 
horse,"  "rocking horse,"  "war horse,"  "wheel horse," 
"  dray  horse,"  "dead horse,"  and  "git  up  old  horse." 
One  has  the  temerity  to  assert  that  "  that  old  horse  " 
went  to  the  hoss-pital  long  ago,  and  has  now  gone  to 
the  dogs.  All  sorts  of  horses  and  hints  of  horses 
are  brought  into  view  like  a  circus  procession,  wherein 
tkese  lively  correspondents  act  as  so  many  ring 
comedians. 

One  reply  states  that  the  writer  knew  that  same 
old  horse,  and  never  could  look  upon  him  without 
shedding  tears.  His  full  name  was  "  horse  radish." 
Quite  affecting.  Celebrated  trotting  and  running 
horses  come  in  for  their  share  of  notice,  but  it  would 
take  too  much  space  to  recount  their  names.  All 
this  is  frivolous.  But  men  will  be  boys,  and  must 
have  their  toys.  Now,  for  the  serious  responses  to 
a  serious  want. 

A  very  much-in-earnest  correspondent  refers  to  a 
beautiful  poem  by  Longfellow,  containing  a  touching 
story  of  an  old  horse  that  had  borne  his  master  many 
a  long  mile  on  his  knightly  expeditions,  and  who, 
when  the  horse  had  become  aged  and  infirm,  turned 
him  out  to  shift  for  himself.  There  was  no  "  society 
for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  dumb  animals  "  in 
those  days,  but  there  was  a  town  bell  in  a  public 
square  to  be  rung  to  call  the  authorities  into  council 
when  any  one  had  suffered  a  wrong. 

The  bell  had  been  long  out  of  use,  the  place  be- 
ing orderly,  and  the  rope  having  rotted  from  expos- 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE. 


345 


ure  it  was  patched  out  with  platted  straw.  One 
night  the  town  was  startled  by  the  bell  clanging 
*'  some  one  hath  done  a  wrong  —  hath  done  a  wrong." 
The  old  horse  was  nibbling  around  at  the  short  grass 
and  had  accidently  got  a  mouthful  of  the  straw  rope 
which  he  pulled  and  rang  the  bell.  The  council 
assembled  at  midnight ;  the  old  horse  was  brought 
into  court  —  his  story  was  told,  and  his  master  was 
obliged  to  take  him  home  and  cheer  his  declining 
years.  This  old  horse's  wrongs  were  righted  and  he 
was  happy, 

But  his  master  was  a  rich  prince,  who  could  well 
afford  the  luxury  of  an  old  horse. 

So  far  as  we  know  his  history,  our  old  horse  met 
with  no  such  kind  friends  and  good  luck.  He  was  a 
"  Dobbin  *'  or  "  Dapple,"  and  a  drudge  in  the  lower 
circles  of  horsehood.  He  had  never  charged  in 
the  front  of  battle ;  nor  responded  to  the  cheers  of 
a  crowd  on  the  race  course ;  nor  carried  off  a  blue 
ribbon  at  a  State  fair  —  the  proudest  ambition  of  a 
highbred,  noble  stallion. 

He  was  the  horse  of  poor  yet  respectable  people 
who  could  ill  afford  to  feed  him  after  he  had  ceased 
to  be  useful.  The  skin  and  bones  of  an  old  horse 
are  not  worth  keeping  hanging  round,  and  it  unfor- 
tunately happens  that  his  appetite  for  corn  and  oats 
and  clover  increases  with  age.  His  legs  and  eyes 
may  utterly  fail,  but  his  teeth  are  the  last  to  wear  out. 

What  is  the  poor  owner  of  such  a  poor  horse  tn 
do  ?  The  song  has  it  —  "  let  him  die."  It  is  a  hard 
case  all  round.  Strict  justice  to  the  beast  would 
often  be  gross  injustice  to  the  man.     If  the  animal 


34^  THE    MASQUE   OF   THE    MUSES. 

has  anything  to  complain  of,  it  is  his  own  organiza- 
tion and  persistent  constitution,  which  enable  him  to 
eat  long  after  he  is  unable  to  work  for  his  board.  He 
becomes,  as  it  were,  his  own  stocks,  in  which  he 
sticks  as  a  mark  for  everybody's  abuse.  Nature  ap- 
pears to  have  gifted  him  with  mistaken  economy, 
which  has  entailed  great  misery  on  the  whole  horse 
race,  and  distracted  man  with  melancholy  songs. 
There  is  no  help  for  it.  "  Poor  old  horse  !  Let  him 
die." 

From  another  correspondent  the  following  is  re- 
ceived :  — 

"  Old  Horse  :  The  words  of  the  song  you  wish 
can  be  found  in  Dana's  '  Two  Years  before  the 
Mast'  '*  That  book  was  consulted.  It  was  printed 
thirty-two  years  ago.  It  is  all  about  sailors  and  the 
salt  seas,  and  gives  an  account  of  a  voyage  to  Cali- 
fornia at  that  remote  period  before  the  railroad  folded 
together  the  East  and  West  like  two  pages  of  the 
book.  It  dishes  up  "  old  horse "  in  French  style. 
Sailors  are  in  the  habit  of  making  rough  jokes  even 
about  the  dainties  of  their  table.  Seamen  have  a 
tradition  that  a  beef  dealer  was  once  convicted  in 
Boston  of  having  sold  "old  horse"  for  ships*  stoies 
instead  of  beef,  and  had  been  sentenced  until  he 
should  eat  a  whole  horse,  and  that  he  is  now  lying  in 
Boston  jail  eating  horse  meat.  Dana  gives  the  fol- 
lowing rhymes  as  chanted  by  sailors  over  their  efforts 
to  stow  away  tough  beef:  — 

**  Old  horse !  old  horse,  what  brought  you  here  ? 
From  Sacarap  to  Portland  pier 
I've  carted  stone  this  many  a  year ; 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  34/ 

Till,  killed  by  blows  and  sore  abuse, 
They  salted  me  down  for  sailors'  use. 
The  sailors  they  do  me  despise, 
They  turn  me  over,  and  damn  my  eyes. 
Cut  off  my  meat,  and  scrape  my  bones. 
And  pitch  me  over  to  Davy  Jones." 

This  is  an  honest  effort  at  animal  painting,  but  it 
is  very  far  from  a  picture  of  our  old  horse.  It  does 
not  begin  to  describe  the  depth  of  his  woes.  We 
shall  have  to  look  further,  even  if  we  fare  worse. 

Here  is  another  letter  on  the  subject,  which  prom- 
ises some  genuine  satisfaction :  "If  *  Old  Horse '  is 
serious  about  wanting  the  words  of  the  old  song  enti- 
tled *  Poor  Old  Horse,'  the  writer  can  supply  them, 
in  part  at  least,  just  as  he  learned  them  from  his 
father  thirty  years  ago  in  the  *  mother  country.' 
He  has  never  seen  them  either  in  print  or  manu- 
script, and  a  part  of  the  old  song  has  slipped  from 
memory.  So  much  as  he  knows  he  herewith 
encloses,  hoping  some  one  else  will  step  in  and  make 
up  the  deficiency.  The  writer  is  curious  to  know 
the  motives  which  prompted  the  advertisement  and 
the  name  of  the  parties  thereto  —  to  satisfy  which 
he  sends  his  full  name  and  address." 

<'POOR  OLD  HORSE. 

"  Come  all  you  gentlemen, 

With  courage  stout  and  bold. 
Who  have  got  a  good  old  horse. 

Take  care  of  him  when  he's  old. 
Mind,  be  sure,  you  use  him  well, 

Mark  well  what  I  now  say. 
And  all  in  their  due  season, 
Give  him  good  corn  and  hay. 
Poor  old  horse. 


348  THE    MASQUE    OF   THE    MUSES. 


'  Once,  when  young,  I  was  fed 
On  the  best  of  corn  and  hay. 
That  ever  in  the  fields  grew. 

Or  in  the  meadows  green  and  gay. 
But  now  I  am  growing  old, 
I  can  get  no  corn  at  all ; 
I'm  obliged  to  crop  the  short  grass, 
That  grows  'round  the  wall. 
Poor  old  horse ! 

*  Once,  too,  I  was  clothed 

In  best  linsey-woolsey  fine  ; 
And  I  was  well  fed  up. 

And  my  body  it  did  shine. 
But  now  in  the  open  fields 

I'm  for-ced  for  to  go. 
To  bear  cold  winter's  storms. 
Hail,  rain,  frost,  and  snow. 

Poor  old  horse ! 

'  My  skin  unto  the  huntsman 
So  freely  I  would  give  ;• 
My  body  to  the  hounds, 

I'd  rather  die  than  live. 
And  lay  down  my  precious  limbs 

That  have  run  so  many  miles, 
O'er  hedges,  ditches,  mountains  high. 
As  well  as  gates  and  stiles. 

Poor  old  horse ! 

*         *        *        *         -x-        -x- 
"But  now  I'm  growing  old. 
My  nature  feels  decay  ; 
And  as  I  in  my  stable  stood, 
I  heard  my  master  say  — 
Poor  old  horse ! 
•Jf         *         -x-         -x-         *         * 

'*  We'll  whip  him,  stick  him,  turn  him  out. 
To  the  dogs  we'll  let  him  go. 
Poor  old  horse !  " 


SKETCHES    FROM    LIFE.  349 

O!  "lame  and  impotent  conclusion."  But 'tis  just 
like  a  dying  horse.  How  the  words  fail  towards  the 
last.  Dust  of  oblivion  !  Scarcely  worth  sweeping 
up !       * 

Still  another  communication  :  — 

"  If  the  gentleman  who  wants  to  know  the  words 

of  *  Poor  Old  Horse,  Let  him  Die/  will  call  at 

he  might  get  them." 

The  gentleman  called  as  directed,  and  the  follow- 
ing is  the  treasure  of  another  memory :  — 

"POOR   OLD   HORSE,  LET   HIM    DIE. 

'*My  clothing  was  once  of  woolsey,  spun  so  fine  ; 
My  tail  it  grew  long,  and  my  body  did  shine. 
But  now  I'm  growing  old,  I  have  no  friends  at  all, 
I'm  forced  to  clip  the  wild  grass  that  grows  beneath  yon  wall. 

Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 
"Whip  him,  strip  him,  turn  him  out, 
Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 

*'  Now  I'm  getting  old,  nature  does  decay ;       * 
I've  been  master  of  yon  field  for  many  a  long  day. 
My  master  he  w.as  good,  and  to  me  was  very  kind, 
But  now  I  have  to  hunt  my  food,  and  sometimes  hard  to  find. 

Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 
Whip  him,  strip  him,  turn  him  out, 
Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 

*<  That  old  horse,  blind  and  lazy,  he's  eating  all  my  hay  and  straw, 
And  he  is  noway  fit  my  heavy  team  to  draw ; 
He's  poor  and  he's  old,  he's  no  use  to  me  now, 
And  he  can  not  work  any  more  in  harrow,  cart  or  plow. 

Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 
Whip  him,  strip  him,  turn  him  out, 
Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 


350         THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  MUSES. 

'*  Now,  to  conclude  and  finish  up  my  hunting  song, 
My  skin 'I  give  the  huntsman,  my  body  to  the  houn', 
And  for  my  poor  old  bones,  they  may  bleach  in  the  sun. 
Unless  my  master  buries  them  for  what  they  have  done. 

Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die. 
Whip  him,  strip  him,  turn  him  out, 
Poor  old  horse,  let  him  die." 

How  memories  differ  in  regard  to  sound,  and  yet 
how  tightly  they  grasp  the  sense  that  has  impressed 
them.  Here  are  the  recollections  of  two,  and  the 
reg,der  may  take  his  choice.  No  language  is  safe 
till  it  is  printed.  It  may  not  be  considered  worth 
printing  at  the  time- it  is  uttered,  but  somebody  will 
want  to  repeat  it  sometime.  Rude  songs  and  bal- 
lads contain  the  soul  of  the  people  who  sing  them. 
We  would  have  been  better  and  wiser  to-day  if  more 
of  this  heart-music  of  our  English  fathers  had  been 
preserved.  "  Poor  Old  Horse  "  was  evidently  popu- 
lar, and  sung  in  many  farm-house  and  stable.  Its 
moral  is  good,  and  cultivates  humanity.  The  above 
imperfect  outlines  are  all  that  is  left  of  it.  Was 
it  worth  the  search  ?  Yes !  If  it  stirs  a  pleasant 
memory  in  a  single  old  man,  and  touches  a  string  in 
his  heart  that  vibrates  the  tones  of  the  boy. 

At  best,  things  don't  sound  to  us  now  like  they 
did  when  we  were  boys.  Do  they?  The  voices 
that  spoke  them  are  hushed,  and  in  these  lay  the 
charm  of  the  notes  and  sentiments  that  were  sweetest 
music  to  the  ear  and  heart  of  childhood. 

In  the  young  days  of  "  Poor  Old  Horse "  the 
printing  press  was  not  so  busy  as  it  is  now,  and 
the  best  memories  can  but  imperfectly  supply  the 


SKETCHES    FROM   LIFE.  35 1 

blanks  it  left.  Now  the  press  gathers  up  everything 
of  present  and  future  value  as  it  goes.  If  anything 
is  lost,  mislaid  or  stolen,  the  printing  machine  can 
find  it — from  a  great  fortune  wanting  heirs,  down 
to  scraps  of  the  skin  and  bones  of  a  poor  old  horse 
that  lived  long  ago. 


% 


^.  v^.^ 


•i^^>- 


4. 


ii:^-:;..^,^ --^f  ^^-^ 


ivi209350 

B53 
Vvas 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


